


Finding Me

by PenelopePenniworth



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Amnesia, Boy Love, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Chicago, Chicago (City), Coma, Eventual Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Gay, Gay Male Character, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Love, M/M, OOC Mickey Milkovich, Shameless AU, Top Ian Gallagher
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2018-11-04 10:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 91,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10989327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopePenniworth/pseuds/PenelopePenniworth
Summary: On this way home from his EMT shift, Ian's curious self stumbles across a body in dire need of a hospital. What does he do when this person knows nothing of who he is, were he came from, and has nowhere to go? Take him in, of course, and help him find himself.(this summary is absolute shit, I apologize--I'm better than this... I'll change it eventually when I can think of something better)*UPDATE 1 year later*....I still can't think of a better summary.





	1. After hours

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually kind of excited for this story (because I've wanted to write a Gallavich story for THE absolute longest, but couldn't come up with a plot). 
> 
> Things to keep in mind:  
> *This follows only part of the Shameless story (it eludes to only some of the events that occurred in the show, basically anything that doesn't involve or had stemmed from Ian and Mickey being together still happens—Ian did still go off to the army though and crash a helicopter due to his mania)  
> *It occurs about 4 years after the events the show (aka after 7x11 because I still refuse to watch 7x12 lbvs) and because I don't know exact ages I'm making (also based on the ages on Wikipedia):  
> 
> 
>   * Ian 24
>   * Mickey should be 27 (based on Noel's assumptions of Mickey being three years older)
>   * Lip 25
>   * Fiona 29
>   * Carl 20
>   * Debbie 21
>   * Liam 11
> 

> 
> *Ian and Mickey never met prior to this story, so they are complete strangers

Ian hung his EMT jacket in his locker, releasing a sigh from his lips as used the sides of the locker to hold himself up. He could feel all the tension in his shoulders already at its peak from performing CPR multiple times, lifting patients heavier than he onto gurneys in and out of the ambulance – even though he could bench press more than his weight. It was a very long night and now his shift was finally over. He knew the south side of Chicago was notorious for the violence, injuries, and unfortunately common deaths, but he had not had a day where it was back to back. Granted, he had not worked an overnight shift in the five years he’d worked with them, so that could have been why. Sue wasn’t in the least bit fazed by any of this, so she must be used to it. 

What the hell was even going on that night, but none of the cases seemed related. There were a couple heart attacks, automobile accidents, the occasional gunshot wound and also one unusual case where a woman pushed her “boyfriend” out of their second floor window because he cheated on her. That was the craziest one of the night. 

Thank God he wasn’t into girls.

There were two hard pats on Ian’s back and he almost welcomed them, desiring a massage. “You did good, Gallagher.” Ian turned his head slightly to see a smiling Sue, his shift supervisor of their South Lawndale station. He had reached his growth peak years ago, so he towered over the older woman by a good five inches, at least. “Go home and get some rest, hm?”

“Oh I definitely will,” He confirmed, pushing himself to stand upright, and began unbuttoning the blue uniform shirt. “I’m going to sleep the whole fucking day away.”

Sue laughed, “You should. You deserve it. It was a tough night. Don’t forget you still have a shift tomorrow morning, though.” With another pat of his back, she turned on her heel and walked out of the locker room, leaving Ian alone as a couple of his EMT acquaintances came strolling in for the beginning of their shift. They were going on about their plans for tonight and that’s when Ian decided to tune everything out. 

Although there was a considerable age difference between him and Sue, she was still like an older sister to Ian. He knew it would be that way from the moment Rita found out he was Bipolar and tried to let him go when he just started; Sue was the first one to have his back and fight for him. She later talked him through every boy problem he had—with Caleb, his first actual boyfriend who had helped him get this job in the first place and then turned complete dud halfway through the relationship when he went ahead and cheated on him with a girl and then Trevor, who was new and exciting at first, but then it kind of just fizzled out. He definitely did tell her about the flings before and in-between; that seemed a little too much. That was what his brother Lip was for.

Ian turned the key in the ignition of his red 2007 Chevy Impala and the familiar chugging sound made itself known before it revved to life. This car was old as fuck, but it was the only thing he could really afford a few years ago with his EMT job. Regardless, it was his first “big boy purchase”, so he was proud of it. It was no SUV that Fiona purchased for herself with her newfound fortune, but he worked hard for it himself and that was good enough.

The cool, catchy beats of Chance the Rapper's 'No Problem' pounded through the speakers as he drove the unchanging path back home to his apartment. Although the car was old, the speakers were banging. In a good way. It was no surprise, knowing who he bought the car from and he trusted their handiwork. Having connections in the Southside paid off. 

As buildings started blending into one another, trees creating their green streaks in the foreground, he saw something in his peripheral that caught his eye. Something that was not on his usual trip. 

It was just like him. Whenever he saw a dog, he would drive over. He knew he couldn’t have one—he didn’t make enough to add another living thing to his home—so if that was as close he was going to get to one, he’d take it. 

But this wasn’t a dog. Something was off.

It was a dark mass on the ground from his point of view, unmoving; bigger than a mound of dirt and more formed than a stack of garbage. It bothered him not knowing exactly what it was because out of everything in the neighborhood, it was out of place. Making sure there were no pedestrians crossing the street when he paused briefly at the stop sign, he turned the corner. It didn’t look like anyone was around at this time of day. They were all probably inside their apartments and home or at work.

Ian parked his car as close as he could get and got out, making a point to lock it before creeping over to the mound. You can never be too careful out here. The dark mass became more formed, longer, lighter. It was probably just a homeless person, to be honest, but here he was—against better judgement. 

Ian gasped, running over.

A man laid, unmoving, in a pool of dark red liquid that Ian was all too used to in his line of work. The rusty stench of iron further propelled his assumptions to know that that was definitely blood that guy was lying in. His own blood. There was no second thought about it when he stepped into the area, as his EMT brain that was just off-duty kicked in, and he tried calling the man to come to. 

No response.

No matter how many times he ran this routine, it would always get his blood rushing. It never got old even though the scenario was usually the same with every other patient. With the pounding of his heart in his ears, Ian called the man once more to check and leaned to down to check if he was breathing. It was very faint and broken. He placed his index finger and middle finger to the jugular vein. 

It was a slow beat against his skin and getting slower by the second. 

Now, Ian was a Ginger and Gingers were pale as they come. No matter how hard he tried to tan, he only burned. An alarm went off in his head when he noticed that this man’s skin was paler than his own pearl white skin. He was losing too much blood. Ian searched his body for the source and it didn’t take long to find the hole in his shirt in his upper left quadrant of his stomach. _Shit._ How long had this guy been here like this? His clothes were soaked through of his blood.

Ian immediately removed his unbuttoned plain shirt that sat atop his dark grey t-shirt and bunched it up, pressing it to the bleeding spot in attempt to save as much blood in the unconscious man as he could. He pulled out his phone with his free hand and hit 9-1-1 as he pulled up the guy’s clothes to investigate further, keeping the area pressed down.

_“911, what is your emergency?”_

“Hi, I have an unconscious male, bleeding out from a gunshot wound to his stomach. There is no exit wound, so it seems the bullet is still in him. I don’t know how long he’s been here, but he’s lost a lot of blood and his pulse is weak and thready.” He momentarily forgot half of the lingo could be saved for the med techs that will show up in the ambulance, but he usually isn't in the situation outside of work. 

_“What is your location?”_

“Uhm…” Ian looked around for the nearest street sign. He knew he was traveling on Kedzie Avenue at least. _Ah!_ “I’m by the intersection of Kedzie Ave. and 28th Street.”

_“I have alerted the response team. An ambulance is on their way shortly. Stay on the line and just keep calm.”_

Ian bit back the snarky remark that threatened to leave his lips of how he was calm and he was a full-time EMT, so he knew what the procedure was, but there were more important matters at hand. He took the time to look at the victim and really assess the situation. The guy had a bloody bottom lip, split down the middle and a well-formed, bruised right eye. Was he in a fight gone wrong? Was he mugged? Balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear, he used that free hand to pull his bruise-free left eyelid up. Blue eyes rolled to the back of his head, but they were visible enough to show blown pupils as expected due to his lack of consciousness, but there could have been other causes for that even before he lost consciousness. 

He wished he had his equipment to be able to do more, but unfortunately, he was at a loss. Even if he did have what he needed, what this guy actually needed was a hospital, a blood transfusion, oxygen, fluids. Ian was losing him. Fast.

It had felt like an hour passed before the ambulance had finally reached them where, in actuality, it had probably been much less than that. He knew the closest emergency service vehicle was going to be where he had just come from, so he wasn’t surprised to find the two techs that had started their shift when Ian left jumping out of the ambulance with their equipment in tow. 

“Ian?” One of them questioned, seeing the red-head crouched over the man.

“I called it in. We don’t have a lot of time; just get him out of here!” Ian spoke quickly, snapping them back into emergency mode. He stood back, a _slight_ feeling of superiority washing over him, as he watched them work. They were the newest recruits and Ian had trained them himself when they started (with Rita backing him, of course). It wasn’t their first or third rodeo by any means (they got a lot of practice in), but Ian rarely got to see them work, being scheduled on opposite shifts. They did pretty well as they got him onto the gurney, pressing the oxygen bag as they entered the ambulance.

“You coming?”

Ian looked at his juniors before his head swiveled between his car, his watch, and the man in the ambulance. The need for sleep had long left him and he didn’t have anything else to do anyway. He needed to see this through. It took all of one second for him to make the decision before hopping into the ambulance. He was given the verbal questionnaire they were trained to ask as he cleaned himself up as much as he could, but it quickly went nowhere because Ian literally knew nothing of this man besides what they had all deduced from their basic assessments. All he could do was watch the blood pressure slowly drop on the monitor and there was a twisting and churning in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t lose this one.

Ever since that schizophrenic patient he and Sue were transporting who promised she was fine, that she did not see the demons which were once chasing her only minutes before, and wanted to be released from the restraints that tied her arms to the stretcher (Ian did because he understood what it was like and she jumped out of the ambulance, headfirst into the trailing car behind them), and another patient from a fatal car accident (a child, no less—that was the hardest period in his career to date), he had vowed to not lose another. It was the most difficult thing to do, especially with the cases he’d been dealt, but he hadn’t yet and he wasn't going to start now. This wasn’t his patient _technically_ since he was _technically_ off-duty, but it started with him and he needed to see it to the end.

The three pulled into the emergency gate of the nearest hospital with a surgical unit that would handle gunshot wounds and they wheeled the patient out of the ambulance, Ian following directly behind, and through Cook County Hospital’s double doors. A doctor and a handful of nurses rushed over to them while the EMTs were answering any more medically specific questions they were asked, the main doctor spewing directions for each member of his team in response. He asked Ian what the patient’s name was and Ian stuttered.

No idea. 

What was the blood type of the patient? 

It was a vital question for a blood transfusion, he knew that, but he still couldn’t answer it. He had no idea. And that’s what he told the doctor, who then delegated more tasks. Ian tried hearing what more the doctor was saying, but the nurse standing in front of him made that very difficult as she kept telling him to stay in the waiting room, he can’t go any further than the double doors leading to the operating and recovery rooms. Blah blah blah.

Even if Ian was close to the person on the stretcher and fought for his way inside, they still wouldn’t have let him. It was going to be too sterile of an area and too many people working on him. So, he let the doors swing shut in front of him as they disappeared into one of many rooms.

The last thing he heard was ‘critical condition’ and that put Ian even more on edge.

* * *

A little over three hours had passed in the waiting room and Ian sat, fidgeting in the hard, plastic chairs. These were never comfortable. He hadn't been in a hospital in the middle of the day, so he had no idea how lonely and quiet it was. Liam’s hospital scare, Monica’s Thanksgiving accident, Frannie’s birth—those had all been at night time and for some reason, there were considerable amount of people in the waiting room then compared to now. 

Now, there was only one older man who sat in the corner of the waiting room, eyes fixated on the TV hoisted in the corner part of the ceiling as the only source of sound in the room. His eyes were glazed over and you could tell that he wasn't paying any attention to what was going on on the screen. No movement.

Who was he in the hospital for? A significant other? A loved one? Friend? A joyful reason, like new birth, or one of despair, like death? Ian hoped he himself wasn’t in for the latter—the old man too.

Ian chewed on his lip, his hands wringing together, whatever he could keep his mind in the moment. It was pretty easy too when his stomach growled, begging for food he hadn’t seen in the last eight hours. He was hungry, but at the same time he had no appetite. The last thing he wanted was to walk away and miss important information about the nameless man’s condition. And, so he sat, bloodied prints marked all over his body. He tried to get the blood off his skin as much as he could on the ride over, but there was only so much they could waste on a non-patient. It was a good thing he wore dark clothes; otherwise, it would’ve been an unsightly mess for everyone.

But if he was hungry now, he was long overdue for his medication. It was almost 11:30am, two hours past his designated schedule. _Shit._ He stood up and hurried to the nurse’s station. The woman looked no older than Ian himself, now getting a better look. He asked for a bottle of water and she directed him to the nearest water fountain, letting him know the bottled waters were for patients _only_. She couldn’t even hide the bite behind her voice. She needs to work on her customer service skills if she's going to be a nurse, 

So, Ian couldn’t hide the roll of his eyes either. “And if I don’t get water soon, I’m about to _be_ a patient in this hospital. I need to take my medication now and there’s someone in surgery right now. I don’t want to leave so I don’t miss the doctor, so if you could kindly get me a bottle of water—I’ll get it myself back there if you don’t want to and I can leave you to chart.” He added, gesturing to the nourishment room.

This woman must have been stubborn or something because she sat there, just staring Ian down. What was so bad about losing a bottle of water? He knows for a fact patients waste them every day. The nurse then stood up and walked around the corner of the wall separating two parts of the nurse’s station. She came back around with a small Styrofoam cup in her hand. 

“Your water.”

“Thanks.” _Bitch._ He pulled out the plastic baggie that held one white pill from his jeans pocket. Thankfully, he had remembered to take the baggie out of his button-up before he used it to put pressure onto the man’s open wound. He downed the pill and water as a different doctor appear in front of the double doors, eyes scanning the room. The old man, who sat in the corner of the room, looked to the doctor expectantly with wide eyes as he began standing up, but then he called for Gallagher and the old man sat back down dejectedly. Ian hurried to the doctor's line of vision.

“Hello, I'm Dr. Montgomery, I operated on the gun wound patient. Surgery was successful, I'm glad to say. We were able to remove the bullet completely. It was difficult because his vitals were so low upon arrival, but we were eventually able to stabilize him upon blood transfusion and he seems to be doing well now, but only time will tell. We had given him Type O blood since we don’t know what his actually is, but in the meantime, have sent his own blood in for testing for the right one in case of any allergies. That will take about one to three days for us to receive the result—in this case, Tuesday, at the latest. Right now, we have kept him in the ICU for strict monitoring and he will be in there for a couple days until we are sure enough to move him to recovery. He had also sustained a head injury--you said you found him on the ground, correct?" Ian nodded in response. "Right, so it was most likely from a fall. We won't be able to know how that affected him until he comes to."

Ian nodded again, following along with the doctor’s words, and he could feel the weight slowly dissolving off his shoulders and exhaustion creeping its way up. “That's a good start."

"It certainly is. It was a good thing you brought him in when you did. Any longer we probably would have lost him for sure." A shiver ran down Ian's spine at the thought. "Does he have any one to contact while he's here?"

Ian rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not sure. I didn't see any identification on him."

The surgeon hummed in thought. "I suppose all we can do is wait until he is conscious, then. Again, good job." He patted Ian's shoulder before calling another name and the old man stood up again. The surgeon went over to him and started relaying whatever was going on with his patient. Ian couldn't hear what the conversation was about, but with the look of dread on the old man's face and the shake of the surgeon's head, he could tell was not good news.

Was that fair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not familiar with the whole EMT procedure and I was last in nursing school three years ago, so I have no immediate knowledge of medical training anymore, I'm going based on what I remember--forgive me if I fucked something up ^^;


	2. F-U John Doe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually enjoyed writing this chapter...probably because I actually know this procedure xD...then again this procedure has probably been updated like three times already lol and also it's "action-y", I guess.

Ian looked over the supplies he had just finished counting and arranging in the ambulance, checking off everything he had gone through on the checklist. It was a pretty quiet day at work and he was thankful for that after a night, into day, like yesterday--two days ago? Whatever. The overnight shift threw him off. As he told Sue, he was going to sleep it all away and you better fucking believe he did. It was great. When he came in to work today, he was Superman-ready to save the citizens of Southside Chicago. 

But there wasn't much saving needed, apparently.

"Check and mate!"

"We're playing Poker, dumb-ass."

"I know. But I still win. Read 'em and weep."

"Come on, double or nothin'."

"You're already buying me lunch the next two days. You want to buy lunch for the whole week? Sure, let's go!"

Ian didn't turn around, but chuckled at the two behind him. He could picture Brett's boasting expression and Sue's offended one as it was. By the sound of it, Brett had won this round...and the two before that. Clearly, Sue wasn't good at poker, but she wasn't going to lose to her junior.

Ian slid the checklist clipboard back into the plastic compartment bolted to the wall of the ambulance. He hopped off the platform and sauntered over to them, wanting to watch the game, completely amused at this point. Brett expertly divvied up the cards between the two and looked up at Ian when he sat on the arm of the chair Sue was settled in. Brett was a year younger than Ian, but he must have been a cardshark in the casinos before working here because there was no way he could just shuffle and cut cards that smoothly and quickly for shits and giggles.

"You want in, Ian?"

"Naw, I'm good, man," He laughed, "I'll just watch."

"You sure?" Brett mused, "I could--" He was suddenly cut off by the radio transmission of an emergency call. They all grabbed a hold of their radio to listen carefully to the description.

"You guys got it?" asked Sue, once the report finished. The boys nodded and hopped off their seats. Ian rushed to his locker and grabbed his jacket as he responded to dispatch, letting them know they were on their way. Brett grabbed the bright orange equipment bag and climbed into the passenger seat as Ian climbed into the drivers seat. The day Rita allowed him and Sue taught him to drive the ambulance, further into his EMT experience, was fucking awesome. He never got over it. He received just as much of a rush in the driver's seat as he did in the field. 

As he would in a regular car, he made sure of the position of all mirrors even though that had been on the checklist as well -- habits die hard -- and then turned on the siren before he drove out of the station while Brett received information regarding the whereabouts and condition of the coming patient.

Traffic was atrocious on the way to the site, which he did expect on a Monday afternoon in Chicago, but they were still able to make it. Nothing could or would stop them. Pulling up the residential building that required their assistance, Ian rushed to the huddle of people while Brett climbed in the back and opened the doors, pulling out the gurney. 

It was a simple heart attack scenario that Ian had handled more times than he could count on his hands and toes, but he still approached it as a new trainee would.

"Clear the area, please!" Ian commanded as he pushed his way through the crowd and kneeled down to the collapsed male. He tapped the man's shoulders, taking in the condition of his face. His lips were turning a pale blue. "Sir, are you okay?...Can you hear me? Sir?" He bent down, ear to the man's lips, to listen for any breaths as he also stared down his chest for any indication of rising and falling. None. Ian straightened back up and felt for a pulse. None. 

_Damn it. Not today._

Crossing his palms one over the other on the man's chest, he started pushing down and up, down and up, counting audibly as Brett was at the side of the man's head, lifting the chin upwards. He placed the mouth piece and attached bag into the man's mouth and waited for Ian to get to 30 before he pushed air into his lungs twice. Ian started chest compressions again as Brett repeated the same action and he felt for a pulse again. 

Nothing.

"Still no pulse. Brett, grab the AED."

Brett did just that, setting up the machine as Ian cut the man's shirt straight down the middle, revealing his pale white skin and tufts of white hair. Deeming it wasn't enough to shave, Ian continued the compressions.

_"Charge ready." The machine then spoke, "Preparing for shock. Clear the area."_

"Clear!" Brett called, removing himself from the body. Ian followed suit. The crowd still huddled around them, breaths held in suspense, but neither of the paramedics had really remembered they were there. The only thing that mattered was bringing this man back to life. 

The man's body shook with a jolt as soon as the electrical shock was administered. Ian pressed his fingers to the patient’s neck and waited. Still no response. The machine announced it was ready for another shock and Brett called 'clear', pressing the button to send that jolt once more. Again, the man’s body jerked in response and Ian checked for a pulse. A sense of relief washed over him when he felt the first push against his fingers, but it wasn’t over just yet. They had just passed the first hurdle. They had to get his vitals back to normal.

“We got a pulse.” Ian announced, preparing the man for transport. “Let’s get him on the stretcher and to a hospital. Fast.” Brett was already in motion, lowering the gurney to floor height. They carefully transferred him onto it and wheeled him into the ambulance, Brett taking his seat in the back, attaching the patient to the oxygen tank and monitors.

“Can I ride along?” A middle-aged woman came up to Ian, who stood by the doors, waiting for the okay to shut it. Her face saturated with tears. No doubt she was related somehow. His assumptions were supported when she added that it was her father, so he approved of the request and told her to join Brett in the back before he ran up to the front.

The siren went on again as they drove to the nearest hospital in the area, Cook County Hospital. Ian was focused on the road while his partner relayed information about their patient, who they soon learned was named Phil, to the hospital using his radio. As he’d done and experienced many times before, Ian drove into the emergency entrance when they arrived and parked as Brett prepped Phil for descent. The daughter, Molly, stepped out of the ambulance first, Ian helping her down, to give Brett the space needed to get her father out. The three hurried into the building and soon they were bombarded with medical personnel, taking over.

“Your father will be fine,” Ian reassured Molly. He squeezed her arm gently before she parted from him and disappeared behind the double doors.

Brett walked up to his senior, nudging him in the arm with his elbow. “Hey, Ian, I’m going to go take a leak before we head back out. That okay?”

“No, I’d rather you piss in the ambulance on the way back,” Ian responded with a chuckle, nudging his partner back in the same manner. “Go ahead.” With a roll of his eyes, Brett jogged off to the men’s room, leaving Ian standing in the waiting room alone. 

It was just then did it click in his mind. This was where he left that gunshot victim that day. He wondered how he was doing. Making his way over to the familiar nurses’ station, he leaned over the counter, more comfortable in doing so dressed in his uniform. It was a different nurse this time. Ian’s face brightened—someone he was _actually_ familiar with and not a bitchy-faced newbie.

“Hey, Mei!”

“Ian!” The woman smiled, eyes forming thin crescents as the corners creased. She stood and leaned in to hug him over the counter. Ian had to bend further down, her 5 foot 5 inches stature compared to his towering six feet 1 and a half inches (the additional inch and a half being because of his cushion-y work shoes) proving to make the stretch a little difficult. She was ten years older than him, but she was the cutest thing.

“Uhm...hold on, I got this." Ian raise his palm out to her and Mei raised her brow with a tilt of her head at the odd conversation starter. " _Ni hao ma?_ ” Ian asked, putting the very little Chinese he had learned from her to use.

“ _Hěn hǎo_ ,” She laughed, knowing how well he butchered the tones, but still understood what he meant. “How have you been, hun?”

“Good! Busy with work, y’know.” Ian grinned, eyes falling to her now flat stomach. It was surprising how she looked completely normal right now even though it had been about two months since he last saw her with a large belly. Like, it was half her size with her being so little! “How is the new baby?”

“Oh, she’s great. An absolute angel. Less of a problem child than her brother. Want to see pictures?” Mei asked as she was ready to pull her phone out in a split second, glowing in her glorifying new and seasoned mommy skin. Ian had to kindly let her down though, he didn’t have much time.

“I’m sorry, Mei; any other day, I’d gladly sit down with you and gush over Hannah, but I wanted to check on someone before I have to head back to the station.”

“Oh, sure. Who did you want to check on?”

“Uhm... He didn’t have a name when I brought him in; he was unconscious. He's probably still in ICU being monitored for blood allergies?”

“Oh! F-U John Doe! You brought him in? I had only heard some things about that whole situation, but you know how gossip is here. You need to fill me in later,” She said, definitely, as she clacked away at the keyboard.

“Yeah, I will,” Ian chuckled, drumming his fingers on the counter, waiting for the response. _F-U John Doe?_

“Alright, so, it looks like he’s been stable since you brought him in… Everything was normal...no allergic reactions yet. He got stitches on the back of his head from what the doctor assumed was a fall. Pretty basic... He hasn’t seemed to have woken up yet, though. Did you know he had ‘fuck you up’ tattooed on his knuckles? Must have been a gangster boy or something…”

Ian tilted his head as she went on. He was still unconscious? Must have been a pretty hard fall… And, who the hell would have ‘fuck you up’ tattooed on their _body_? Dumb fucking life move there. He hadn’t noticed that the day since he was focused more on his bullet wound than anything else. “And did anyone come in to identify him then?” 

Mei shook her head with furrowed brows and pursed lips. Her hazel eyes, uncommon for one of her race, moved back and forth and up and down quickly as she scanned the digital chart in front of her. “Doesn’t look like it… He’s still a John Doe, according to this.”

“Huh.” He wasn’t sure how long that guy had been laying there when he had found him that day and it had been almost two days now. Did he just not have family? Friends? No one claimed him missing yet? Sure, he may have been a possible gangster (who isn’t where he’s from, honestly?) and he was a grown man—or at least he looked like it, anyway—but people could still claim them missing, couldn’t they? At least, that’s what the Gallagher family did for their estranged father, he thought, as his mind drifted to his younger years when his Frank went missing for about two days—and no one actually likes him. Granted, it was Fiona’s old beau, Jimmy/Steve, who kidnapped him in the first place, but still.

“Ready to go!” Brett’s loud voice emerged from his thoughts and he turned to the culprit, nodding his head. Pushing himself off the counter to an upright position, Ian slapped his hands down gently on the counter, smiling at his friendly nurse.

“Thanks for the info, Mei. I gotta go, but I promise I’ll catch you up on... _'F-U John Doe'_ next time!” With a two-fingered salute, he left the hospital with Brett and they made their way back to their station, curious thoughts of that John Doe floating around in Ian's head.


	3. Long night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why this one took so long to crank out... But, I think this is the longest chapter by far and I have no idea why... Well, I guess I do; couldn't shorten it even if I tried... Enjoy lol
> 
> **EDIT:** Also, I had something I wanted to run by someone because I can think two ways of taking Mr. F-U John Doe. You guys are my only audience, so I'm asking if one of you wants to be my consultant for the next part (and also major part/character trait) of this story. Leave a comment below! :)

The blinding sun rays seeped through the skin of Ian’s eyelids, causing him to stir. It couldn't even be 9:00 yet... With a soft groan, he turned over in his bed, snuggling further into his covers. He was off today; he didn’t need to be awake. Especially not on days where his alarm is completely off for the sake of sleeping in.

_Ugh._ But he was up.

Ian pushed his covers covers down to his waist, revealing his bare torso, with a sigh, still staring in the direction of the ceiling behind his eyelids. His body was too accustomed to getting up at ungodly hours of the day and, now, this was him sleeping in? Fluttering open as he lifted a hand to his browline, the other scratching that soft itch on his chest, his sea green eyes drifted to the alarm clock that sat on his nightstand. 

6:32. _Jesus fucking Christ..._

Well, he was up now...

Ian pushed himself up and trudged into the bathroom, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. _Fuck!_ Of course, he had to run into the dresser before he made it through the threshold because why the fuck not? If he wasn't already awake, he definitely was now. 

Limping over to the sink, he actually looked at his self in the mirror this time. The past few days were constant in and out, in and out. Since he already had to wake up at the ass crack of dawn, tied in with crazy hours, he would sleep until the last very minute and made his bathroom preparations quick and simple: run his body through the rush of cold water, splash some in his face, brush his teeth, and go. 10 minutes tops. 15, if he was feeling generous that day.

So, when he saw his facial hair growing in he wasn't the last bit surprised. He rubbed his chin, feeling the length of the fiery red bristles, that were now as long as his nailbeds, rough against his callused fingers. He hadn't shaved for a week and it definitely showed. He ran his fingers through his growing hair that had seemed to lighten to a golden-orange at the tips, compared to his darker red-orange roots, due to the sun. He also needed a haircut. That would come in due time.

Ian decided on a longer shower this time (with warm water), savoring the unlimited amount of time he had. So, an hour later, he stepped out of the shower clean, freshly shaven, and relaxed. Running his fingers through his damp hair, he left the bathroom, making his way over to the dresser, careful to avoid it this time. He stretched his neck to look at the clock as he dug for clothes to wear.

7:53. Jesus, what is he supposed to do all day?

* * *

He tried filling his day with mundane tasks. He made an omelette for breakfast, cleaned his apartment...sort of...and went grocery shopping. That took all of three hours and it still hadn't reached noon. So, a trip to the gym, it was. Ian usually worked out in the confines of his own home, but if he was going to be at home all day, he might as well get out and treat himself to a little eye-candy at the same time. To complete his workout regimen, it would take him almost two hours. Maybe, he could stretch it out. 

100 push-ups, 5 reps of 50 arm curls, 150lbs of bench press, 10 reps of 50 jump rope skips, and 15 minutes of chest exercises later, Ian still finished up within the two hours regularly allotted time. So much for taking his time. When he gets going, he really gets going and time becomes a thing of the past. 

On his way home, he still had a lot of the day left. Ian made a last minute decision to make a detour and visit his old family home and the family. The path to the house required passing by the same area that he picked up F-U John Doe and it looked like nothing even happened—no yellow tape zoning off the area anymore, people were walking through as they usually would—not a single trace of that morning was left. Life moved on only days later, but John Doe's life could not. He was perpetually stuck in the same day in his head, laying in that hospital bed. 

Did anyone come in to guide him along by now?

Maybe he could go visit and find out. 

It's been four days though. F-U John Doe had probably awake and had found someone to call in by now. He, or whoever was related to him, didn't need a stranger there. He could have probably left the hospital by now. Maybe it was better to just stay out of it now. Ian did his job, right?

* * *

It had probably been a few weeks since he’d been at the Gallagher home. Ian lost track of time over that period. But, the home itself had seemed to constantly be stuck in time too. Nothing about his birthplace had changed – from the day he was born to now, twenty-four years later – aside from the few tulips that grew in the dirt patch along the perimeter of the two-story house. That was Fiona’s way to liven it up a little without changing too much, but still making it hers. The light blue siding that covered the front half of the home and the brick structure that covered the back half stayed the same. The panes were clean, but the brick did show signs of age. Fiona did have to replace the living room window, however. He remembered parts of a drunken accident involving a baseball bat, him, and Carl. Manic symptoms and alcohol did not mix very well, especially when Lithium weakened your tolerance as it was.

The lot space next to the home that the Gallagher had unofficially claimed as theirs was no longer an empty space for a couple years now. When they were kids, it proved to be useful for their pool every summer, but then they grew up, as well as the other kids in the neighborhood that would join them.The two Lisa’s (lesbian real estate agents who were trying to renovate the entire neighborhood at the time) tried taking it over, turning it into a “community garden”, which quickly turned to shit if Frank had anything to do with it. The couple gave up after countless acts of “vandalism” (uncontrolled, in his father’s defense), not able to keep up with his drunken or high stupors and insane ideas for money and “fighting politics”. They eventually left the neighborhood and it just became a parking lot for Fiona’s car and the car of whomever decided to visit that day. Like today, it was Ian's.

With a slam of his car door, remembering to lock it before he got far, he walked along the cemented path along the perimeter of the home, which led to their backyard, as he fished through his chain of keys. He wasn’t even sure if anyone was home in the first place since he was showing up on a whim, but he'll deal with that once he sees for sure. The familiar wood steps creaked with each step he took until he reached the back door, separating the two keys needed, and let him himself in.

As soon as the door was wide enough, Ian saw the backend of a guy bent down and facing him as they dug through the fridge. That person wasn't the least bit fazed by the randomly opened door behind him. Ian shut the door, not uttering a word in attempt to scare his little brother. There were only two boys and Fiona left in the Gallagher home now and, by the skin color of his back peeking from under his shirt and his lack of attention, Ian knew exactly who it was.

The refrigerator was shut using his foot as he turned around, bag of sliced cheese hanging from his lips and arms filled with condiments and sandwich innards while holding on to the bag of sandwich bread. Ian couldn’t help but laugh, his cover already being blown.

“Ian!” Carl exclaimed, the bag of cheese dropping into his arms in surprise.

“Hey, Carl.”

Carl made a B-line around the counter that separated the two and embraced his older brother in a hug. Damn, he was getting to be as tall as Ian. “What’re you doing here?”

Ian shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood. Wanted to stop by and see you guys.” Just then, the bathroom door to the right of him swung open with the sound of the toilet mid-flush in the background. His older brother walked out with an unlit cigarette between his lips.

“Hey, man!” It was his turn to embrace Ian with a happy laugh, “What’re you doing over here?”

Ian repeated the same thing he told Carl, word for word. “But I could ask you the same thing, though. No classes today?”

“Nope,” Lip answered, slipping the cigarette in the chest pocket of his tan leather jacket. “So, I came down to see Carl, Liam, and Fi for the day. And I guess you now, too.” He swung his arm over his younger brother’s shoulders and Ian grinned. The height between them was very obvious, having at least 4 inches on top Lip, but Ian still felt like younger under his brother’s arms.

“Fiona’s at work right now,” Carl informed Ian, watching his brothers converse.

“Liam?”

“School. He doesn’t get home until 5.”

Ian nodded in understanding. It was such a strange idea, every time he thought about it. The Gallagher boys all back in school, with the exception of Ian, of course. Liam in the fifth grade, Carl in college, and Lip finishing up his bachelors (better late than never)—never thought the Gallagher clan would get their life back on track. Liam was inevitably going to stay in school until he graduated college himself; the older Gallagher kids very well made sure that that would happen. 

When Carl got back from cadet camp, he went back to school to complete the Chicago Police Department’s college education requirements instead of going off to the army. Fiona, Debbie, and Lip (with the forced backings of Kev and V—V was Fiona’s best friend, so she had to have her back, and Kev was V’s husband, so, by default he must go along with whatever V says) had made it a point that their dislike of Carl going off to the army was known—every day. Liam thought it was a cool idea, but it didn’t seem like he cared if Carl went through with it or not. For a ten-year-old, he wasn't very decisive. Ian wouldn’t give his input because he went off on his own without telling anyone, so he couldn’t be a hypocrite tell his brother not to, but he didn’t want to tell him what to do either. So, Carl settled on just completing the 60 credit hours in the end. Between working ridiculous hours to pay for these classes and going to school part-time, he had a year and a half left now to complete the associates’ degree.

As for Lip, he had eventually gotten his shit together, not wanting Fiona to beat him at this game called life. He would never admit that was the main reason why even though Ian could see the jealousy in him every time he saw Fiona doing well or when she told them about her accomplishments. Ian knew Lip, just as much as Lip knew him—it was a deeper understanding that neither of the other brothers really shared. Now, don’t get Lip wrong—he was happy for her, absolutely, but he couldn’t stand knowing he was spiraling quickly into failure, down the well-known detrimental path of their degenerate father. So, he put himself through community college, kissed a shit-ton of asses to redeem himself of his blemished record, worked his ass off outside of classes, and got into IIT. Now, he had one year left to get his Bachelors. Everyone was working up their success stories. It was very unfamiliar, but fucking great. Maybe they weren’t destined to stay at the bottom after all.

In the living room, all three boys had gathered in front of the TV, sipping on their individual bottles of beer as they caught each other up on what had been going on in their life. Apparently, Carl had a girlfriend named Cassie now of two weeks (his older brothers made sure not to let the opportunity go of teasing him with their similar names). They noticed way he spoke about her mimicked how he talked about his first "real" girlfriend, many years ago. Carl may look tough as a typical Southside gangster on the outside to everyone else, but the Gallagher family knew how soft he really was. He let Dominique in and, once she broke his heart, he wasn’t the same towards anyone, even his family until recently. There were girls after her when he came back, but none of them were remotely serious and he wasn’t ready to let anyone in again. So, Lip and Ian were surprised about this one. Granted, it had been a few years, but they were starting to believe he had given up on love.

Lip had been working on more prototypes on his spare time, using all the information he had been gaining in school from his engineering programs and his own research. Once he started designing and building again, it was easy for him to find his way back to being the intelligent Gallagher in the home instead of drowning himself in alcohol and sex. The concepts and terminology he used went over both Ian and Carl’s heads; it was like a whole other language, but that was the interesting part as they tried to follow along.

Ian filled them in on work, since that was all he had going for him. Interns from when they tried starting an internship program, funny field cases, and the comically named F-U John Doe. The name itself made the brothers laugh.

“They had to keep it PG, I guess,” Ian chuckled, tipping back his beer.

“That’s crazy,” Lip expressed, lifting the small blunt to his lips, taking a long draw. He spoke again before even letting the smoke out the same way it went in, expression contorted as he handed it to Ian. “So, is he still unconscious?”

“Is he even alive now?” Carl added, unfiltered as usual, as Ian took the blunt from his older brother. After a shorter drag himself, he held it over to Carl momentarily forgetting he didn't pick up the Gallagher smoking gene along with Debbie. Carl shook his head and Ian passed it back to Lip. 

“I’m not sure… It’s been a few days since I brought him in…” Ian replied, thoughtfully as he leaned back into the couch. “I hope so.”

“Shit. Never a dull day in the life of an EMT, huh?”

“Fuck, no.”

The boys fell into another conversation before they decided on playing video games and Liam joined in when he came back from school, completely disregarding his schoolwork for the time being. Ian tapped out after the third round of Call of Duty, just watching them play. It could have been due to the slight weed-induced haze, but his focus was consistently disrupted as his mind had stayed on the John Doe he had brought in days before. Was he still unconscious? Was he dead? Was he even out of the hospital yet? Did someone claim him?

This was a different case for Ian. Usually, when he brought patients in they were at least conscious or their vitals were stable enough for him to feel like they were fine. But this one… Nothing about it was "normal". He had handled gunshot victims before, but there was usually a witness to tell him the story or he was able to figure it out from the victim themselves. Here, Ian knew absolutely nothing and uncertainty he did not like, especially when it came to his patients. he didn't spend years reading up on case studies, watching Sue and Rita handle patients, or updating his knowledge of anything medically related for nothing.

_Thwak!_

"The _fuck_?" Ian swore, spilling a bit of his warm beer from almost dropping it. A pillow was thrown in his face, ripping him away from his thoughts, and it sat in his lap now. Lip and Carl had stopped playing the game (for who even knew for how long because Liam was no longer in the room), but he couldn’t figure out who the culprit was as they both stared at him down with peculiar expressions. 

“You okay, man?” Lip asked.

“Uh— Yeah,” Ian agreed.

"You've been zoned out for, like, at least 10 minutes, dude."

"Was I? Must be tired." Ian twisted his wrist to get a better look at his watch. "It's getting late anyway. I've got work in the morning." He stood up, stretching his back a little, before nodding over to Lip. "You need a lift, man?"

"Nah, I'm good. I'm gonna chill here for a bit. Thanks, though."

Ian nodded in reply. "Alright. Then, I'm gonna head out."

Lip nodded as well as both he and Carl stood, the older brother slapping their hands together and pulling Ian in for a bro-hug. "Good to see ya, kid."

"Don't be a stranger." Carl said, following suit, and Ian ruffled his perfectly styled hair, gaining a whine from his younger brother. Mission accomplished. 

Ian left the home, glad to have hung out with part of his family, but now this odd feeling was circling in the pit of his stomach. Again. He tried to ignore it as he got into his car and carefully drove from the makeshift garage into the cool, dark night. 

You know how you can walk to a destination without thinking about it? You can drive home without realizing you were even once on the road because you got from point A to point B due to some Godly miracle? Ian thought he was in full control of his actions as he coasted his way back to his apartment, glancing at the clock in his car. The green digital numbers glowed 9:42pm, so he could get to his apartment a little after 10:00 and still have a decent amount of sleep, right? Well, ten o'clock hit and he had found himself sitting in Cook County Hospital's emergency entrance. At some point in the drive, he had made the wrong right turns. 

Ian hummed, biting his lips, as he drummed the pleather cover of the steering wheel in thought. The soft glow of red light illuminated the car like a spotlight, keeping him conscious of his next move. He was already here, right? He might as well go in and check on the guy. It would be a waste of gas if he drives home now. Plus, it will be a quick in and out. No lingering. It should be fine. 

Fighting between both options, Ian finally grabbed the key from the ignition, shutting off the chugging engine. He made his way into the hospital, stopping in front of the empty nurse's station. Oh, wait. You do need to be a family member to be able to get this type of information and he didn't have his EMT uniform to give him the leeway... He didn't think this completely through. 

"Ian?" Mei came walking up next to him with a clipboard in her hands. "What're you doing here?"

"Hey, Mei. I was, uhm, in the neighborhood, so I stopped in to see if any updates on that John Doe?" That wasn't weird, right? This "obsession", if one could call it that, was completely legitimate. The look on Mei's face hinted towards otherwise. 

"You came here at 10:30 at night just to check up on this guy?"

Ian nodded slowly. Mei's eyebrow stayed raised for the few seconds she stood in front of him, sizing him up as if it was the first time she had seen him, and he started second guessing whether or not he was making a big deal of this. Without another word, she went around the nurse's station and Ian followed her to the computer she sat in front of. 

"Okay, so... We moved him out of the ICU this morning. His temperature went up a bit, but not alarmingly high... Pretty much expected from the new blood. That's about as exciting as he gets. Nothing really new came up,” she spoke, still looking over the notes on the computer. “It looks like he's been doing well since the surgery. Oh! I did hear the police came by a couple days ago to question him about what happened, but he never woke up." 

"Wait, what? Has he been unconscious the entire time he's been in here?" Ian asked, incredulously, and Mei nodded. It's been four days already! Jesus, he was in an actual coma? "Did anyone come by for him yet?" To that, she shook her head. He really must have not had anyone, then? Ian knew the reason wasn't because he was homeless, at least, since the clothes he had come in looked clean besides being blood-soaked. Or was he not from Chicago and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time?

_Man._ Possibly mugged and then shot. Now, alone in a hospital with no support? Maybe no one would be there when, or _if_ , he even wakes up? That was depressing as hell. 

Ian remembered the time he was in the mental health hospital for three days. Fiona visited him every day, but the other siblings didn't. He understood because they, too, were going through their own shit, but it didn't mean that, even though he was in his depressive state, he didn't wish they were there too. No one should have to go through that. Even if they were possible gangsters. In the Southside, your crew, whoever it be—family, friends, gang members—will always have your back.

With the exception of Frank, of course. He screwed them over one too many times. They gave him enough chances. Maybe his other homeless friends had his back.

"Do you want to go see him?" 

That question brought Ian out of his thoughts. See him? He hadn't intended on ever doing so in the first place because, one, you could really only be a family member of something kind to go in, and, two, he had expected someone would have come to claim this John Doe by now. 

But, no one had to go through that on their own.

"Can I?"

"Sure. Come with me," She replied, walking back around with her clipboard in her hand again. " _Technically_ , you're his only his guardian right now, right? We can't get him to say otherwise, so it's fine."

Mei was his favorite Cook County Hospital nurse for a reason.

She walked Ian down the clean, colorless hallways. It was just like the time during his own hospital stay as well. Nurses and certified nursing assistants walked in and out of shut doors on their hourly rounds, the cleaning lady pushed her large cart of toiletries and extra bedding, getting rooms ready for new patients, and the occasional doctor that popped up to check on his patients. It was so much calmer here. As it should be anyway. 

They stopped in front of room 1026 and Mei pushed the door open before stepping inside and turning on the light just above John Doe's bed. Ian followed behind her, almost tentatively. He wasn't sure why he was getting nervous. It's not as if he hadn't been in front of physically weak people before. 

“I’ve got other patients to check on right now before I get to assessing him again, so I’ll be back, okay?”

Her words almost didn’t register to Ian as he looked over his comatose patient, but he nodded anyway, catching the gist. She exited the room, leaving Ian and this John Doe alone.

Ian walked up to the hospital bed and he shouldn't have been surprised. But he was.

F-U John Doe's head was wrapped in a gauze bandage that was stained with a bit of blood, much less than he assumed there was in the beginning. He had a nasal cannula feeding him oxygen and was hooked up to two IVs on either side of him. Although his body was covered by the hospital blanket up to his shoulders, he knew the IVs were attached one on each arm. The bruised eye he had coming had settled into a lighter mix of black and blue—at least that was healing. He was gaining some color back as well, a lot more than when he last saw him. His lips were still a bit pale and chipping, but overall it did look like he was doing better, at least. 

Ian pulled up one of the visitor’s seats that was against the wall and sat down besides the man, between the head and the foot of the bed. A thought ran through his head. He’d heard different opinions on this topic, but something is better than nothing, right?

“Uhm…Hi. You don’t know me, but…my name—my name is Ian Gallagher.” He scratched the back of his head. “I, uh, I know you can’t talk, but… Fuck.” This was awkward as hell. Talking to someone who couldn’t reply back or who even knew they were being talked to; it was as if he was talking to a wall. But, then again, it’s been said that the unconscious are actually conscious—their bodies just won’t react. A voice would keep them grounded, guiding them towards physical consciousness; where without it, they would be lost forever and never come back. There was absolutely nothing scientific behind it, but not everything can be explained by science in this day and age, right? So, F-U John Doe could possibly be hearing everything of what Ian was saying and, to prevent losing him under his watch (at least until he was claimed), Ian was going to try anything.

He wasn’t sure what else to talk about, so he just filled him in on who he was himself, how he found him and what Mei has told him about his prognosis up until now. Just then, the slow and steady beeping of the heart rate monitor slowly started increasing. Was he reacting to Ian’s story?

“H-Hey,” Ian spoke, standing up from his seat. He glanced quickly from the monitor to F-U John Doe and back. The alarm on the monitor started going off. His blood pressure was lowering and he noticed the blanket over John Doe’s chest rising and falling haphazardly as if he couldn’t breathe. What the hell is going on? Ian lowered the blanket to John Doe’s waist and he noticed something peculiar just under the neckline of the gown he wore. In confusion, he pulled down the gown slightly, revealing raised red spots of varying sizes that continued down his back. _Hives?_

“Ian?” Mei came rushing in. “What happened?”

Ian quickly moved back as Mei took over in a second. “I-I don’t know! All of a sudden his heart rate started going up and then his breathing and then I saw the hives.”

“Hives?” Mei unbuttoned his gown and pushed it down to his stomach, turning him over. It covered both his back and his chest. “Shit.”

“Is he allergic to something?” Ian questioned as Mei hurried out of the room, soon coming back in with some medication in her hand. He watched her expertly rip open the bag that held a syringe and filled it with the medication with such speed as if she could do it in her sleep.

“According to these symptoms, yes. Just not sure what.” She administered the medication in the upper part of his right arm before pulling out an small phone that seemed to be not updated since the late 90's or something. "It might be the blood; we haven't started him on any new medication since the surgery— Hi, Dr. Ingles? We need you in room 1026, pronto. Our coma patient is having an allergic reaction to something. It might be delayed reaction to the blood... Yeah... Okay." She slid the phone back in her pocket before diverting her attention to John Doe, performing more assessments as she started unplugging things from the wall, setting it on the bed. 

It all happened in a blur—the doctor coming in, Mei explaining what Ian told her and results from her assessments, and the two whisking John Doe away. Soon, Ian was left in shock, just standing there in the dimly lit room. He wasn't sure what else to do, but he, at least, knew he wasn't leaving now. So, he just sat back down in the seat he had pulled up and waited, hoping his patient would come back.

* * *

Ian looked at his watch again. It was nearing two in the morning and he hadn't heard anything back from the doctor or Mei yet. He had turned on the TV to help time move faster, but there was nothing remotely interesting to distract him. The nerves were eating him up inside.

F-U John Doe was allergic to the blood given. He couldn't breathe. His blood pressure dropped. And there wasn't much he could do while unconscious. He was taken away to get the right blood, this time, transfused. They had received the results from his blood test when he was first brought in--the weekend elongated the process. Now, it was a waiting game for him to, hopefully, return to his room.

The door opened and Ian quickly stood, waiting to see who or what came in. The foot of a hospital bed poked through first, following Mei and an orderly pushing it in.

"Ian," Mei started with a gasp, "I didn't think you'd still be here still."

Ian shrugged, slipping his hands into his back pocket. “I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“He’s doing better now and should stay that way now we’ve got the right blood going,” Mei nodded, trailing behind the orderly with the IV stands. He pushed the bed back to its previous position besides Ian. “Of course, we’ll have to keep more of a strict eye on him again, but it’s a waiting game now.”

Ian nodded with a slight relief.

“Shouldn’t you be getting home now, though? It’s really late.” She asked with a quick glance at Ian before focusing on the patient again.

Ian shook his head, taking a seat. “I think I’ll just stay and watch over him. Just to make sure he’s good through the night. He doesn’t really have anyone right now, so. And it makes your job a little easier.”

Mei chuckled. “Why don’t you just become a nurse?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far now.” Ian laughed, still keeping his eyes on the unconscious male. He felt if he looked away just once, something would go wrong again.


	4. Wishfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like this was going to be a really long chapter (already 8 pages and I'm not even done lawl), so I'm splitting it in half. This part isn't necessarily all that long though. lol Something to tide you guys over.

It had been about three days since that allergic reaction and Ian made sure to stop by after work every day after that. Mei had put Ian on the visitor's list after that night when he had asked. At this point, it was safe to assume no one was coming for him and the nurses and doctors weren't entirely sure what to do. A full week of unconsciousness with no identity and, therefore, no advanced directives about what to do if he was unable to make any decisions regarding keeping him alive in his current state. 

Ian had been told if two weeks hit, then he was in a true coma and it seemed like that was the direction F-U John Doe was headed. He had minimum brain functioning as one would in a coma, but he was able to breathe on his own. Nothing had really declined yet since that night besides a bit of his weight due to lack of exercise and heavy foods, which did gave Ian some hope, but that was the same thing that could've been said the day before when the allergic reaction occurred. 

He still continued his conversations with his unnamed rescue-ee, though, believing that was keeping him from falling further into a coma. This time, he had plenty more to say, feeling more comfortable having this one-sided conversation. He would talk to him about his day, more personal information about himself (because who could a comatose patient tell?); he even asked F-U John Doe questions, trying to figure out who he was, if anything regarding him would trigger a reaction.

To keep himself busy as well, Ian took over turning and readjusting the patient to prevent bed sores, range of motion exercises so his muscles didn't atrophy, and started giving him bed baths since Mei taught him the proper technique. The first three times, it was really awkward going below the waist—the first time he had to let Mei do it. Yes, he had seen and done other inappropriate things below the waist to and from plenty of other guys, but there was something a little more…“intimate”, if he could call it that, about bathing someone. He absolutely refused to change his urine drainage bag, however; that, he left up to Mei or whichever nurse was in charge of him at the time.

When he bathed John Doe, besides the bruises that further propelled the thought that he had definitely been mugged, he noticed an imprint on his ring finger of his 'U-Up' tattooed hand. Ian could tell it was a ring of some sort, but he wasn't sure if it was just for decoration, something sentimental, or an engagement or wedding ring. Another thing Ian had asked him, but no reaction was given.

Ian sat in the same spot he had been the last three days, right beside him between the head and foot of the bed, cradling his hand. Ian's hands weren't really very soft by any means, at least the pads of his fingers anyway. F-U John Doe's, on the other hand, were surprisingly softer and there was a little part of him that kind of enjoyed it. Just a little. Even Fiona had more calluses than this guy. It made Ian wonder what kind of occupation he had. Evidently, not one dealing with his hands.

Now, Ian wasn't one for regular hand-holding either, but human to human contact helped on babies. Adults shouldn't be an exception, right? He didn't go as far as having him lay on his tit though. That would be weird as fuck; weirder than talking to a wall.

"Hm..." Ian hummed in thought, looking at his John Doe's face, eyes tracing his features. Not like it was something he hadn't done enough already. "You look like you could use a shave now. That beard is getting a little out of control... I guess we can do it today..." 

Nick, one of the nurses that relieved Mei yesterday afternoon had told Ian he could have shaved him that day, but, although Ian had a lot of knowledge as an EMT, he was too worried about nicking his unconscious patient and causing an uncontrollable bleed or something. Nick laughed at his overactive imagination and assured him that wasn't going to happen just by shaving, as long as he did it carefully. Ian still refused until this moment since it was getting a bit long that it formed a full mustache too. Might as well.

He pulled the pink basin from the bedside table drawer with the travel-sized can of shaving cream and unopened razor. He grabbed the washcloth from the stack of extra linens and ran it under hot water while filling the basin with that as well. Letting the water run, he placed the damp towel over his chin, careful to leave enough space for him to breathe, and let it sit there as he tended to the bucket.

Bringing the items in the sink over to the bed-table, Ian set the towel over his neck and covered his beard with the shaving cream, the cool foam marginally colder than John Doe himself. He carefully began running the razor over every surface inch of dark hair, keeping in mind not to nick him even the slightest bit. John Doe wasn't hemophilic, he knew that, but Ian wasn't trying to cause a decline in health that he'd been maintaining so well.

Once finished, Ian took the damp towel and ran it over his now-shaven face, cleaning off all the cream that was left. 

"There," He spoke, tilting John Doe's chin upwards as he admired his handiwork. "Smooth as a baby's bottom." He ran the back of his hand over John Doe's cheek, feeling for any rough spots of missed hairs, but it was all smooth as he said. But he didn't stop for some reason. _Hm._ "You're actually pretty good-looking under all that hair."

That's when Ian noticed a smallest twitch of John Doe's mouth, right next to his thumb. It was so slight and so quick he wouldn't have noticed it had he not been intently staring at his face. And, for a second, he was shocked before he realized it could have just been a muscle spasm or something. That's all it was.

That's all it very well could be.

But there it was again with a matching twitch of his eyebrow and, this time, Ian quickly let go. _Holy fuck._ This wasn’t really happening… Was it?

“H-Hey… Can you hear me?” Ian asked, voice soft, but raised in hope. F-U John Doe’s eyebrows struggled to furrow together, but it did as he gained movement behind his eyelids. Holy shit, no way. Ian didn’t know what else to do, but stand there dumbfounded, expectant, and wait until he actually fully came to. 

Wishfully. 

And his wish was granted. Soon, blue eyes that seemed to be as bottomless as the Mariana Trench were staring back at Ian behind lowered lids. He swore the last time he saw them they were a little darker and a bit duller. But this time, they were pretty vibrant. Maybe it was due to the setting sun, hitting him just right as he could barely open his eyes.

“Hi,” Ian breathed. He couldn’t help the overjoyed smile on his face as his formerly comatose patient’s eyes scanned the hospital room. He was actually awake! “Do you know where you are? Who I am?” He wasn’t sure if all that talking he did in his sleep worked, but it was worth a shot.

F-U John Doe’s eyes finally fell to Ian and he moved his mouth, opening and closing it as if to prepare him for speech. “G-Gallagher…?” His voice was horse and just above a whisper, having not spoken in at least a week.

“Holy shit, you remembered my name?!” 

_It actually worked?!_

“W-Where…am I…?” His head moved this time to get a better look at his surroundings and there came the unfortunately familiar, quickened beeping of the monitor. His heart rate was increasing again. So, was his breathing, but this time it didn’t look like another allergic reaction. Shit. He was starting to freak out. 

“W-Wait, calm down.” Ian placed a hand on his in an attempt to relax him and John Doe’s eyes traced down to it. Ian quickly let go thinking he was uncomfortable with the sudden skin contact and, the next thing he knew, John Doe had ripped out an IV line. “Whoa, wait! Don’t do that!”

“Why am I here?” His voice got a little louder as he went for the next one, but Ian lunged at him, holding his hands away from the other. John Doe struggled against him, but he barely held even an ounce of power against Ian.

“You’re at Cook County Hospital! You were badly hurt when I brought you in— Stop fighting!” Ian called for a doctor, a nurse, anyone close by to help him in his predicament. “Calm down, no one’s trying to hurt you!” 

Soon, another nurse that Ian didn’t really know and wasn’t assigned to the room, rushed in, seeing the two. That’s when F-U John Doe started fighting back harder. The nurse pressed a button before she ran over to hold down one arm as Ian held down the other. The patient still struggled against them.

“Get—get the fuck off me!” He yelled. “WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?!”

Kelly, the nurse actually assigned to the room, came in. “Hold him still as best as you can, so I can administer this sedative.”

“GET THAT AWAY FROM ME!”

“We aren’t trying to hurt you,” She reassured their patient as the other two did as they were told. “We just want you to calm down.” She connected the syringe to the IV line that was still intact and pushed the medication through.

John Doe continued putting up a fight, but the effort became weaker and weaker as he exerted himself. “THE FUCK…THE fuck…I w-will…” And then he was out. _Fuck…_ Ian leaned against the bed rails in slight relief. He knew that he would have been freaked out upon waking up in an unknown place, but he had not expected it to go down that badly… 

“What happened?” Kelly asked, picking up the abandoned IV that was no longer attached and had spilled onto the floor during their scuffle. She pressed a few buttons on the IV machine until it stopped flowing.

“I had just finished shaving him when he started waking up. He didn’t know where he was, so he started freaking out and ripped out one of his IVs.” He replied as he grabbed another towel from the pile, throwing it on the spilled IV fluid.

“Hm… He should start coming to within the hour. Hopefully, it’s less of that reaction the next time. I'm glad he woke up though.”

“Yeah,” Ian replied, glancing up at his John Doe’s sleeping form from where he sat, crouched and wiping.

“Next time he does come to, call the doctor. Immediately. Okay?” 

Ian nodded. He hoped there was next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yayy, he's awake. Now, the fun begins. :D  
> Also, I just really wanted the first thing he said to Ian to be 'Gallagher' again, haha. The little things.


	5. Manhandled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 fucking pages. I knew it was a good idea to split the last chapter and this lol

Maybe it was his fault that his John Doe reacted as he did. Maybe it was his fault that John Doe was cuffed to the bedrails, the thick belts loose yet still straining against his pearly white skin. Ian was uncomfortably close to him as it was. How else would one react with a stranger’s face up close and personal when you woke up? That’s why Ian decided to sit a foot away from the bed this time and just watch him. F-U John Doe didn’t look as peaceful as he previously did in the small coma. Now, he seemed anxious, uncomfortable. All for good reason, anyway.

Ian felt his phone buzz in his back pocket and he leaned to the side, pulling his phone out. It was a text from Fiona.

_Still on for tonight?_

Shit. He forgot. Tonight, the Gallagher’s had planned for a family dinner since the kids were growing out of the house. Debbie had been living with Neil, her brain-damaged, wheelchair-ridden boyfriend, raising her daughter, Frannie, with no intention of ever coming back home. The Gallaghers, at first, were not very accepting of her actions (especially not Fiona), but they eventually had to deal with it. Debbie held her ground and, surprisingly, she and Neil were still going strong at it…whatever it was they had. She had something good going for herself, they couldn’t deny that. Lip was living in an apartment a block away from IIT with his, also surprisingly, long-time girlfriend, Sierra, and Ian was already out on his own. Had it not been for these random dinners, they wouldn’t see each other as often due to conflicting schedules on a regular basis and the thought of visiting home just wouldn’t cross Debbie’s mind to begin with.

Ian felt terrible about what he was about to do, but he felt he had to. He opened the message and quickly typed up a reply.

_Sorry, Fi. Can’t make it tonight; I’ll make it up to you!_

Just then, a soft groan made itself known. Ian quickly slipped his phone back in his pocket and diverted his gaze to the man before him.

“W-What…” He spoke, still seeming out of it. Must have been a strong sedative.

“Hey…” Ian stood up, still keeping his distance. “Please, don’t freak out this time.”

F-U John Doe’s eyelids were fluttering open and shut in an obvious struggle to wake. The rails shook as he tried moving his arms. “Where am I…?”

“Don’t you remember? You freaked out earlier, so they had to cuff you. You’re in Cook County Hospital... In Chicago... Is that where you’re from?”

John Doe’s eyes fell shut, eyebrows knitted together. Was he trying to remember? Was he trying to get his thoughts together? Maybe it was the sedative-induced haze he felt, clouding his thought process. Ian waited for an answer to any of the questions.

They all seemed to be answered with his next statement, but it wasn't the one Ian had hoped for.

“I…I don’t know…” 

_Um._ Maybe he wasn’t from here then?

“Okay… That’s okay.” Ian took a tentative step, closer to the bed. “What’s your name?”

John Doe stayed quiet for another moment before his eyes opened again, seemingly more awake than just moments before. But they darted side to side as if he was searching for something. Trying to muster up a voice, maybe? 

“I…I don’t know… I don’t know.” He repeated, looking up at Ian, who started to notice the panic building in those three simple words, but his eyes spoke novels.

Fuck.

“Okay, calm down…” Ian attempted to coax the anxiety away, but he knew not even he could do that in this very moment no matter what he said or did. “Don’t freak out just yet. Maybe it’s just, you know, the sedative making you foggy. I need to call the doctor in now, okay? Just relax.” He gestured, lowering his open hands, before grabbing the room phone and calling for Kelly. He informed her that their John Doe had woken up and to call the doctor. He hung up, placing the phone back on its stand, and sat back down in his seat. 

"Can these come off..." He held his hands up as far as they were going to go, rattling the rails again.

"I'm not supposed— Only the nurse or the doctor can..." Ian looked at John Doe apologetically. 

"I'm...not going to freak out..."

Ian bit his lip, this moment bring out a vicious aura of deja vu. He was in this very same predicament when transporting that woman who thought demons were chasing her and when he did remove the straps... He shook his head to push the memory back in to the dark confines of his mind and skipped over the topic. He wasn't about to go through the same thing again. Not with him.

“So… Do you remember anything at all before now?”

John Doe seemed to take the bait and shook his head, seeming more awake that just moments ago. 

“Not even why you were brought here?” 

“No, I don’t have a fucking clue!” John Doe tried lifting his trembling hands up again, but he couldn't. An odd, but heart-breaking, groan mixed in with a sigh left his lips as he looked to the other side of the room. Ian wasn't sure if his hands were shaking due to lack of strength or fear. He was lost. He had woken up unfamiliar to everything, everywhere, even himself. This was not an obstacle Ian expected to run into upon his wake.

The doctor came in with Kelly trailing behind. 

"You're awake; welcome back," Dr. Ingles smiled upon arrival and John Doe tried sitting up the best he could in his position. Ian was quick to assist, not without telling him to take it easy, resulting in a glare. Ian quickly let go. "I'm Dr. Ingles. This is your current nurse, Kelly. Do you know where you are?"

Their John Doe looked at the doctor up and down as if he was trying to figure out what his motive was until he finally spoke. 

"Apparently Cook County Hospital."

"That's right. Do you know why?"

"No. But I would appreciate it if someone did tell me-- and can someone _please_ get these fucking things off me? I'm not going to, like, attack someone or whatever." 

Ian could hear the frustration behind his words growing and he looked to Kelly and Dr. Ingles, hoping one of them would. He had never been the one in cuffs before, but he could imagine how torturous it must be lacking full mobility. Relief then washed over him when the doctor started to loosen the belts until they were completely off. 

"You were shot a few days ago and Ian, here--" He gestured that the redhead who stood in silence, looking between the two. When his name was mentioned, Ian shot a small smile at John Doe. "Well, he's the one that found you unconscious at the site and brought you in. We operated on you to remove the bullet, but you've been in a small coma for the past seven days and he's been watching over you since then."

"I've...I've been _what_ —Shit..!" John Doe groaned, holding his side, and Ian fought the urge to coddle him. He must have moved the wrong way, agitating the wound.

The doctor stayed silent, allowing him to process everything for a moment. "Do you know your name? There was no identification on you and the police couldn't find your wallet or anything of the sort at the site."

"I don't remember any fucking thing before waking up here!"

"Not even personal information about yourself? Where you're from? Family? Nothing?"

"No— Goddamn it. How can I not remember anything?" He seemed to question this more to himself than anyone else. It felt like a fist squeezing every ounce of blood out of Ian's heart. This is probably the shittiest short stick anyone could ever draw. 

Dr. Ingles took a step closer to his patient, reaching a hand out, and the latter flinched away, not able to hide the grimace from the sudden move either. “I'm just going to do a basic neurological assessment. Is that alright?” John Doe just stared at the doctor with an expression that seemed like an apprehensive guard dog that was about to bite the head off of anyone who dared to lay a hand on him. "I just want to see if everything is on the up and up."

The patient’s shoulders deflated (only slightly) as if giving up this battle and Dr. Ingles took this as his ‘okay’, pulling out his penlight.

“Alright, keep your eyes open and look into the light.” He bent over to the patient’s eyeline, shining the light into both eyes individually and John Doe still pushed himself again the headboard of the hospital bed as if he wasn't already leaning against the only thing keeping him somewhat upright. “Okay, now follow the penlight.” He held it out about one foot of John Doe’s face, raising it up, down, left, right, and then the four diagonal points. He seemed to keep a steady gaze on it. “So far so good.” Dr. Ingles performed a few more physical neurological tests on John Doe, who begrudgingly followed along. “So, it seems you follow along well, no neurological issues. I believe the memory loss could be due to the mixture of the sedative and analgesics.”

"You're sure that's all it is?" Ian asked. 

"I can't say for certain, so all we can do is wait and see. I would give it a few days, however. In the meantime, what we should be focusing on is your strength, specifically muscle strength. You haven't used your arms and legs in a while."

"I think arm strength is barely a problem," Ian murmured, replaying back the small bout they were previously in. Luckily, no one caught on to it, except maybe the John Doe spoken about, who gave him a look as soon as he said that. Ian pretended not to notice, giving his attention to the doctor. 

"While I'm in here," The doctor continued to Ian's benefit, "May I check on your stitches? I was told you put up quite the fight when you woke up the first time and you may have pulled a couple stitches just now seeing as you're bleeding a bit through your gown."

John Doe took a moment before he tried lowering himself to a laying position. Ian was quick to his side again to assist him, but he pulled away. 

Ian put his arms up in defense. "Just trying to help."

"I can fucking do it."

He very well could not, but he tried anyway. He managed to lower himself while attempting to mask the pain, but by his trembling arms and lips as his jaw set, Ian could tell there was more pain than comfort. 

The doctor moved the blanket down, just at his waist to give him a decent amount of privacy, and unbuttoned his gown just enough to view the site. Their John Doe was probably uncomfortable with the lack of decency in a room filled with absolute strangers, Ian felt, but he didn't say a word.

"Kelly, could you bring me the suture kit?" Dr. Ingles asked, keeping his eyes on the pulled stitches, and she did so. Ian just watched him work and it was the most disgusting and oddly intriguing spectacle. When Debbie was a mere child, she sometimes would ask Ian to sew up her ripped teddy bears, which is how he learned to do a basic stitch, which shockingly looked to be the same as what the doctor was doing. Sewing up a broken man bear. 

Kelly and Dr. Ingles had eventually left the room, leaving Ian alone with his now conscious patient. Now, Ian didn’t know what to do or what to say. When he was unconscious, there was much to do besides coax him back to life. Whatever was to happen after he awoke did not cross Ian’s mind even once that entire week. 

There was a thick silence that hung over them partnered with an awkwardness that Ian was sure he himself was creating. His John Doe was occupied looking around the room, peeking underneath the neck of his gown—no doubt to look at his surgical site from the bullet removal, maybe to see if it was actually real. So many questions were written on his face and Ian was sure that he couldn’t answer any of them for him. 

“When can I get out of here?”

Yeah, definitely questions he couldn’t answer.

“Uhm…” Ian rubbed the back of his neck, unable to meet John Doe’s gaze for a moment, “I’m not sure. That would be up to the doctor once he thinks you’re better.” He watched John Doe’s gaze drop as well, set on the lavender polka-dotted green cloth covering his naked body until he seemed to have noticed the tattoos on his knuckles. He ran his fingers over each inked letter and hyphen. Rather than awkward, it became a calculating silence. Ian waited for him to say something.

But he didn’t. 

“I know this all must be a lot to process…” Ian finally spoke. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

He still didn’t speak. 

Ian wasn't sure if this was post-traumatic stress, shock, or all of the above, but he was getting worried. More on edge than he was while John Doe was in a coma. And when Ian gets nervous, he talks. 

"So... When you woke up the first time, how did you know my name was Gallagher?" Not the greatest conversation starter, but it was better than nothing. He was honestly curious about this to see if it did work. 

John Doe stayed quiet and Ian finally concluded he just wasn't going to talk to him, which should've been no different than before when he was talking to nothing. But he was awake this time, which was good eno—

"Your uniform." He had finally spoken, ceasing Ian's train of thought.

Ian tilted his head in confusion. "My un...." He followed John Doe's line of vision down to his chest. Oh. He had come directly from work, so he was wearing his blue uniform top with his name imprinted in white on a pinned nametag, which sat atop his right breast. “Oh… That’s slightly disappointing.”

John Doe looked at him oddly, a thick brow raised.

Ian shook his head. “It’s nothing. Never mind. So, it’s time for your range of motion exercises for the night.” He stood up from his regular seat, not missing another odd look he received.

“My what?”

“Range of motion exercises. We did it every day for you so your muscles wouldn’t start to atrophy.”

“'Atrophy'? The fuck is that?”

“Uhm…it’s basically when your muscles start to waste away from not using them. Think of it like when, y’know, a nice plump Jimmy John’s sandwich goes flat after a few days in the fridge.” Ian explained, gesturing for added effect. He thought it was a decent explanation, but his patient’s expression said otherwise. “...Okay, I'll try a different analogy-- So, you got a balloon inflated with helium, right? If you don't touch it—"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it."

"Oh. Okay... So, yeah, it was less...awkward when you were out of it then it probably will be for you now, so…would you rather have the nurse do it now?”

“I don’t need it.”

“But you do. You haven’t been out of bed since last week.”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?” Ian challenged and held out his hands. John Doe just looked at them before looking back up to Ian, unmoving. “Squeeze my hands…as hard as you can.”

“Why the fuck am I going to do that?”

“You said you don’t need the physical therapy, so squeeze my hand and we’ll see how much strength you have now. That will determine whether or not you need it. Come on.” He opened and closed his palms twice to spur him on. 

John Doe looked him up and down for a moment before reaching out and taking his hands. Ian could feel his hands shaking as pressure was added. Even Frannie had more strength than what he felt and she was only 4.

“Okay, so this is what that felt like.” Ian turned the tables and took John Doe’s hands, applying the same amount of pressure, dismissing the fact it was almost an excuse to keep his soft, baby-like hands in his. Almost.

“Bullshit.”

Ian almost laughed at his incredulity towards him, someone who has been in the medical field for five years now. “Bullshit, yourself. Fine. Another test then.” Ian said, hardening his stance where he stood as if his rescue-ee was going to be able to do anything. Maybe it’d help the latter feel better. “Arms up; elbows square to your chest. Hold yourself still and I’m going to pull you with just a bit of strength. Okay?”

John Doe as he was told, still confused by this whole interaction. Ian circled his hands around John Doe's wrists, barely holding on, and did as he said he would. John Doe almost toppled over. Ian quickly held both of his shoulders as if he was going to fall right off the bed.

“The fuck,” John Doe swore under his breath. He may have not remembered what kind of strength he would normally have, but anyone in his place would be surprised at how weak they were regardless.

“Right... So, can we start?”

John Doe sighed, but not without a roll of his eyes. “Fine.”

Ian shot him a smile and began working on his hands and arms as he had been taught . “I told you—you’ve been out of commission for a little while now, so you’re not at your maximum strength. It’s hard to keep that up while you’re in a coma, but these exercises make it easier to gain back when you wake up. But you have to be fully cooperative. We can’t make you. The more cooperative you are, the quicker you get out.”

John Doe scoffed and said nothing more. At least he complied, letting Ian continue to work on him despite the tension that settled into his patient’s muscles. It was a stark difference from the night before. Granted, he couldn’t really oppose much then, or at all, anyway. He began massaging his hands, each knuckle, every soft pressure area, kneading circles into his skin as he worked his way up. 

Shockingly, John Doe stayed quiet.

When Ian reached his trapezius muscle, that was probably the worst tension in his body. No doubt John Doe's paralyzed with stress, which would do the opposite of helping with his recovery. Ian rubbed more circles into the muscle with his knuckles and with the room being quiet, the sigh that escaped his lips seemed louder than it actually was as Ian could feel his muscle start to relax. The unexpected sound had seemed to startle John Doe because he cleared his throat soon after it left and his muscles had jumped to attention again.

Ian inwardly sighed, feeling his progress regress. He figured the best way to ease the tension was to strike up conversation. A method he was used to doing on the field to distract his patients and calm them down, but with a John Doe, Ian couldn’t possibly think of what to talk about. What was his favorite color, his favorite movie, what did he like to do on the weekends? Did he even like animals? Could he have answered any of them? He couldn’t have since he didn’t have any experiences to create those answers…

So, here he was—just having a one-sided conversation with his brain, the opposite of initial intention. He was absolutely stumped to say the least.

“Hey, you want the TV on?” Ian asked, hoping to alleviate this awkward silence in some way, and momentarily stopped his ministrations on his shoulders to grab the remote before the other could even answer back. “This way, maybe something on there could jog your memory.” He held the remote out to him and he had taken it, slow and careful. Ian waited, but he just stared at the remote in his hand. “Do…do you know how to use it…?”

John Doe rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know how to use a fucking remote. I just don’t know what I’d put on.” If he didn’t know what to normally put on the TV, he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer any of the questions Ian had.

“I guess you can start with the news? Should fill you in on some stuff.” 

Ian moved to the foot of the bed when Mickey turned the TV on. Ian pushed the blanket up to John Doe’s legs and it would have settled at his knees, but his John Doe had pulled his feet back, keeping them hidden under the blanket as his toes stuck out.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Ian stood straight, placing his hands on his hips, fists meeting hip bones. “Working on your legs? You have to do all your limbs—not just your arms. Do you want to be able to walk or not?”

“I’m not paralyzed, y’know.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean we don’t take care of the whole package. You probably can only carry yourself a few feet before your legs start giving way.” Ian stayed quiet for a beat, waiting for him to say something and when he didn't Ian continued, holding out a hand. "So, can I continue? I promise I'm not going to do anything weird. Medical training." He emphasized, pointing to his badge that read 'E.M.T' right under his name. That seemed to have helped as John Doe lowered his knees back down to its flat position.

Ian raised both hands up to show him he had nothing up his sleeve before taking hold of one foot, bending it forwards gently and then back multiple times. He rotated the joints in a circle and side to side the same number of repetitions each. Placing a hand over John Doe's kneecap, Ian took hold of his ankles and pushed up to bend it and pulled it back down to it's straight position and repeated. He did the same with his hips, resting his hand over the indent where his leg meets his pelvic bone, which caused John Doe to stir a bit, and the other taking his knee and pushing it upwards to a hyper flexed position and back down. 

John Doe winced slightly when it was done on the side of the surgery and Ian apologized. Ian moved back down to his feet and started on the massage to get his muscles warmed up. Working one foot at a time he rubbed circles into the sole of his feet, watching John Doe visibly relax against his will. Ian tried to bite back the smile that was threatening to make himself known, so he allowed a small smirk. _So, he likes his foot rubbed._ The ball was in his court again. 

Ian continued on the task at hand and moved up his calf, moving the blanket away, kneading circles into the muscle. It was almost as if John Doe turned into jelly under his hands. The redhead glanced up momentarily to find John Doe’s eyes glued to the screen, but it didn’t seem like he was paying attention to it—well, not completely anyway. He steadily made his way up John Doe’s thigh, of which he could feel tense up for a second as he got closer to his rescu-ee’s pelvis. Ian kept his expression stoic as he did so, keeping it medically appropriate, but it was oddly entertaining how quick John Doe unraveled from a harsh, bordered up guard dog. 

Ian was usually on the receiving-end of massages more than he ever gave. He could count the number of times just on one hand and it was only Trevor that was close to him enough to actually get them from him. Trevor had never once complained and it seemed to always lead to sex, so Ian assumed he gave decent ones, but apparently he must have been really skilled for John Doe to be reacting the way he did. 

So focused on completing his massage, Ian didn’t notice John Doe saying something until his hands were pushed away harshly. He looked up, dark brown eyes barely meeting his.

“What happened? Did I hurt you?” He briefly looked down at back up, not missing the blanket now covering John Doe’s lap, hands on top of each other, securely placed there.

“N-No. I think we’re done with the massage now. I’m good.”

Ian couldn’t miss the blush the creeped onto his cheeks either and he started to put two and two together.

“Oh.” He blinked as John Doe looked away, his jaw muscles setting firmly. “It’s okay. It’s not like it’s a first.” In more ways than one. Ian was then met with narrowed eyes and a raised eyebrow.

“ _What?_ ”

And Ian just shrugged. It wasn’t entirely a big deal to him at this point, having encountered John Doe’s erections a number of times now. “While you were unconscious, you always got…excited when I got to the lower half and during the massages. _BUT—_ ” Ian emphasized, seeing John Doe’s face start to switch into one of horror mixed in with embarrassment, “—The nurses had said that was normal. Of course, I knew that too. It happens to everyone; unconscious people just have less of a control over it. It’s a natural bodily function. Nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

“The fuck you mean it’s nothing to be embarrassed about? You’re not the one being fucking manhandled.”

“ _’Manhandled’?_ ” Ian questioned, almost offended by the use of the word, “I think your body is saying otherwise.”

“Oh my god," John Doe groaned, "Please stop talking."

Ian stifled a laugh. "Well, it seems like you're doing fine now. I'm going to head out, so I'll leave you alone to gather your thoughts finally. I've got work in the morning, but I'll be back after."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Yeah," Ian agreed, grabbing his jacket from the chair and slipping his arms through each sleeve, "But I've already come every day so far, so what's another day? Goodnight." Ian waved to him and John Doe just rolled his eyes. It wasn't as if Ian actually expected him to wave back or do much besides that, he was starting to understand, but he still wanted to establish _some_ kind of common ground since, as far as he knew, this John Doe was all alone in world right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an entertaining write, I hope it was entertaining for you all. Leaves comments and let me know what you think!


	6. Guide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loving all the feedback I'm getting from you guys. It encourages and excites me to keep writing the rest of the chapters! ^^ I hope you all enjoy this one as well. <3

Ian knocked on the door of room 1026 and awaited an answer. He didn't get one. Was his John Doe asleep? Well, Ian doubted he would have even replied if he actually was awake too. Ian made the sound decision to nudge the handle and push the door open to find John Doe flipping through channels on the TV. He was mechanically sat up, the bed being propped up for him since he could barely sit himself up the night before. He didn't seem to settle on anything on the television before he looked over to see who came into the room. He just turned back and continued clicking. 

"You're back." He plainly stated; not surprised, not happy, just void. 

"I told you I would." Ian slipped off his EMT jacket and hung it over his designated seat, pulling it away from the wall back in its position between the head and foot of the bed. He sat back in the seat, leaning his elbows on the wooden arm rests, clasping his hands together. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine.” 

That was all he gave Ian. Nothing else.

“Okay... What about your memory? Did anything come back?”

“No. —So, this is who we have for a fucking president?” John Doe questioned, still facing the television as he landed on the news when current President Donald Trump was on the screen, giving a speech. The sound was low, but the captions were on and Ian briefly wondered if it was like that the entire time.

“Did you sleep okay at least?” Ian continued on, not feeling the need or slight desire to go more into the presidential topic as he had nothing nice to say. 

“Sure.” John Doe shrugged and continued to flip through the channels again. This was a hospital; there were maybe 20 channels at most. So, what was he even looking for having gone through it all at least twice now?

"What are you doing?"

John Doe let out a heavy sigh, forcibly setting down the remote. "There's nothing on TV—did you know they show the same three infomercials over and over again about a goddamn blender, a stupid workout tape, and whatever the fuck all fucking night?— And I can't even fucking do anything or _go_ anywhere because my goddamn legs don’t work.”

It had only been 24 hours since Ian came in and he was already this antsy? He understood, though. John Doe probably needed to leave the space he was confined to for so long, even if he didn’t know where was here for the first week. But something more struck him curious from John Doe’s rant. Did he not go to sleep at all? Ian opened his mouth to voice his question and there was a knock on the door. Neither Ian nor John Doe said granted them entry—not Ian because it wasn’t his room to control and John Doe hadn’t responded when he did the same thing, so there was no expectations that he would’ve done anything different for whoever was at the door. Ian twisted his head to find Mei walking in with the rolling computer and he greeted her happily.

“Hey, Ian,” She smiled, setting up on the opposite side of Ian and John Doe, slipping on gloves. “How was work? I didn’t see you today.”

“Yeah, we were in a different neighborhood today,” He replied, easily, “I didn’t know you were working today.”

“Mhm,” Mei hummed with a nod placing her stethoscope in her ears, “All night. Okay, I’m just going to take your vitals, alright?” She directed her question to John Doe, who just nodded without a fight. He had probably put up enough fights in the beginning since there was probably a nurse doing this every three hours since he woke up. 

“How’s he been doing all day?” Ian asked her once she finished up. He wasn’t going to get acceptable answers from John Doe himself, so he might as well ask a professional.

“He seems to be doing well, coping surprisingly well considering what he’s been through,” Mei answered, looking up at John Doe from transposing what she had written on her clipboard onto the screen in front of her. “Or at least that’s what he makes it seem like. Not much of a talker this one. If he doesn’t gain his memory back in the next couple days or so when he’s only on PRN pain-relievers, we could set him up for psychotherapy, if he wants. The physical therapists came by earlier today for testing of his muscle strength so we can get him set up with a regimen tomorrow. According to them, he’s lost 15% while he was unconscious.”

“15%?” Ian repeated; worry coating his voice, “Is that a lot?” He didn’t know too much about physical therapy or unconscious patients, let alone ones in an actual coma, other than what he needed to know for the few minutes he spends with each patient from the moment he’s called to the moment he lets go when they get to the hospital. Now, the first time he had to learn all this was with someone he actually decided to stick by.

“It’s not _bad_ ,” Mei emphasized, “But it’s a considerable amount. It’s essentially as if he aged about 25, 30 years, which in retrospect is better than the alternative, I guess.”

He was afraid to ask, knowing the ‘alternative’ was going to be much worse, but he wanted to know all of what he was up against. “What’s the alternative?”

“Well, had he been unconscious for two weeks like a fully-termed coma patient, it would have been like he aged 50 years. At least.”

Ian’s head spun at the possibility and he always appreciated Mei giving it to him like it is. He couldn’t imagine what that would have felt like or even what his John Doe felt like at strength of a 40 year old. Ian himself was only 24 going on 25 and he was more than fit for his age with the workouts he would constantly put himself through—has been since he was in Junior ROTC in high school and even more so having gone into the Army with all the drills they did. 

He looked to John Doe and asked, “You knew this?” And all he did was shrug as if it was no big deal. Ian just looked up at him from his seat, now fully erect and attentive from that news. There was no sign of any reaction on John Doe’s face. Did he just accept this fate as it was? Was he silently grieving to himself? Ian just didn’t understand. If it was him, he would still be freaking out from the moment he woke up yet here this guy was, cool as a fucking cucumber. Did he care?

“I told you he wasn’t much of a talker,” Mei spoke after a few beats of silence, Ian just staring at him, trying to figure him out. “But, on a positive note, we’ll test his swallowing reflex tomorrow and, if everything goes well, we can start to taper him off the fluids start him on a soft food diet—slowly getting him back to eating regular food. I’m sure you might be missing real food.”

John Doe chuckled and finally spoke, “How can you miss something you’re not even sure you’ve had.” 

Mei and Ian were silent with their eyes on him, not sure if that was a joke, a saddening statement, him trying to speak his struggle without actually saying it, or if he was just being a jackass.

“Well, if everything goes well, we’ll have a menu ready for you to go crazy on and build those memories back,” Mei smiled, trying to make light of the situation. “Do you need anything before I go check on the next patient? Water? Juice?”

“No.”

“You’re positive? Because I can—”

“I said I’m fine.”

Ian could see Mei’s temples jump as her jaw set before she could verbally rip him a new one. But she was a nurse, and a lady, so she had to act appropriately and just smiled. She was also Southside (for most of her life now anyway), so she knew how to hold her own. If Ian wasn’t still taken aback by the news, he probably would’ve laughed, seeing her have to bite her tongue.

“Alright, well you know where the call button is, so feel free to ring it if you need anything. You’re going to finish up his exercises right, Ian?” The red head nodded in reply as she rolled the computer around the bed, patting Ian’s shoulder before she left the room. The look on her face read “ _I don’t know how or why you’re putting yourself through this._ ” 

Ian understood, but John Doe’s attitude was more or less what he went through in the Southside as it was as well as at home, but at least there was love behind his family’s jokes and dick-y comments because they always came together at the end of the day. This was not. Regardless of the fact, he was familiar with it, so it didn’t bother him as much as it looked like it did her. Ian was in no way obligated to stick by this John Doe and help take care of him, he wasn’t family, yet here he was. He now felt some kind of responsibility towards him and wasn’t entirely sure why. Obviously, he wasn’t bothered by it to question it too much.

“You ready?” Ian asked, standing up from his seat.

“No.”

Ian rolled his eyes. Did he have to keep fighting with him to do something every time? “Do you want to get out of here?”

John Doe huffed and turned up the volume of the TV, settling on a soap opera. “No massages this time.”

“We’ll see.”

* * *

Ian was long gone, now nearing one in the morning, and John Doe wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing or not. At least he had won out earlier and Ian hadn’t given him a massage of his upper legs; he lost the fight in general about not getting the massage entirely. Ian wouldn’t let it go and opted for everything except his thighs for the sole reason he would be getting real physical therapy tomorrow. 

Another night was passing, more nurses and doctors that were barely ever the same going in and out of his room, and time was becoming a blurry existence. He knew what date it was—the nurses would write it on the white board that sat right across from him every morning, decorated with crude drawings of a sun, green grass, and swirly trees if it was morning or a starry night if it was evening. He knew what time it was as well since there was a clock hanging right above it too, yet time continued to escape him.

John Doe was spending the second night awake again. He couldn't get himself to close his eyes. Not after the first time. 

The first night he had woken up—after he had gotten the news of where he was and how he got there and after Ian had left—he struggled to let everything sink in. He was shot. He had surgery. He was in a coma. He lost a week of his life, how ever long his life actually was. How could he even have no recollection of something that should’ve been so fucking _ingrained_ in his brain: himself? He didn't even have control of his own fucking libido. Jesus.

Maybe it is what the doctor said; maybe it was due to the constant medication he was receiving.

But he had been tired. After sleeping for seven days straight, he was still tired. His mind—his whole body was weak. He could barely lift one finger let alone his own head. He couldn’t do anything himself except press buttons on the remote. The nurses had to come in and bath him, clean him—speaking of which he wore a fucking _diaper_. He had barely any control of his bodily functions and had to be stuck in a damn diaper. He may have not known how old he was, but he at least knew he wasn’t a fucking infant. It was embarrassing. It was humiliating. What kind of life was he destined to live now?

So, he closed his eyes that night. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. If he could go to sleep, the hours would pass right on by. The sedative would leave his body and he’d be on his way back to gaining his self back much quicker.

Except it didn’t.

Once he drifted off, he woke right back up 30 minutes later, breathing heavily, heart racing, blood rushing, head spinning. He couldn’t even remember the nightmare he had, but everything in him was screaming not to go back to sleep; it was an emotion he did not want to experience again. And so, on the TV remote that tripled as a call button and light switch, he turned on every lamp in his room and he started flipping through the only 20 channels the hospital had on TV to find something better to watch. He didn’t that night. Not when all they showed were the same three infomercials.

This night, he settled on the infomercial about the blender with more than 10 settings. You could apparently make salsa, smoothies with a change of the jar and drink it straight from there when it was done, all while crushing ice. _This is what people spend their “5 easy payments of $19.99” on?_

By the end of the night, about the time when his nurse—an older-aged woman, but not too old to be questioning why she wasn’t in a nursing home or anything—came in to change the date and picture on the board, he had already memorized the entire commercial. He could recite it word for word, tone by tone, lisp by lisp, if anyone had asked him to. Of course he would never because why the fuck?

“Good morning,” The nurse sang, writing on the board. She was too goddamn chipper for it to be 7 in the morning… “I’m Shelli—with an ‘I’. I’ll be your nurse for the rest of the morning and afternoon. How are you feeling today?”

“Fine.” He answered as she walked over to the bed with a disgusting smile that made his body cringe, checking the monitor and his vitals he was already so used to getting.

“Just fine? Any pain?” She asked, taking his wrist to feel for his pulse.

“I had a surgery. What do you think?”

“Well, what’s your pain level now?”

“I don’t know.”

“On a scale of 1, being the least, to 10. You know the drill; it’s not the first and it definitely won’t be the last—at least not until you leave here.”

John Doe sighed, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t wait to get out of here. “I don’t know, a 4?”

“Okay, not too bad. Are you using the pump when you can’t handle it? Do you want anything extra for it besides your morphine?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes; _oh my God_.”

He was getting tired of all these questions. Was he sure? Of course, he was fucking sure. It’s his body. He wouldn’t have said it if he wasn’t. 

Well. Maybe.

“Okay, well, just let us know since you’ll be starting your physical therapy today. We’re excited to get you up and about again.” There was that smile again. John Doe feigned one not even close to her that disappeared as small and quick as it came.

A few hours later, everything started progressing quicker than he had expected. There were so many more people from different departments hovering over him, picking him up, putting him down, room changes. So much talking about what he should and shouldn’t do, can and can’t do. So many things that he thought he was to retain, but none of it actually stuck. He could only go with the motions and even then could he not keep up. His head was literally about to explode.

At least for this he didn’t have to struggle to understand.

“Alright,” The physical therapist started. This person was much older than the one the hospital tried to stick him with—graying hair, seemingly respectable and full of experience and knowledge. The first physical therapist couldn’t have been older than him, maybe around the age of Ian—whatever that was. They both looked young, though that PT had a softer and rounder face than Ian with his sharp jaw, thickening beard of red as if he hadn’t shaved in weeks, and, with just the body type alone, John Doe had made a very critical observation Ian had more span than that kid. Kid. It fit that PT perfectly. 

There was no way he was going to let a kid teach him how to walk again. Fuck no.

So, he’d settle for Gramps, who had bent down to his eye-level from where John Doe himself sat in his hospital-assigned wheelchair. 

“As you were probably told yesterday, your regimen isn’t going to be too long and tough since you still have some muscle strength, not as serious as we have usually dealt with, but we do have to…‘force it out’ of you, for lack of better words. We’ll have to push you past what you may be comfortable with, but we’ll start off easy right now. Simply standing up and then sitting down. Rinse and repeat. Think you’re ready for that?”

“Yeah, sure.” _The more cooperative you are, the quicker you get out._

John Doe grasped both hands firmly around each armrest without the doctor’s go ahead, ignoring his therapist's sound of surprise. His arms were again unsteady, but he ignored it. He needed to get up. Inhaling deeply and ignoring the dull pain he felt in his torso, John Doe began pushing himself up. It felt like trying to push a boulder of at least one hundred pounds and his backside didn't even get more than an inch off the wheelchair before he fell back into it with a sharp exhale. He refused to give up and tried again, putting himself back in his previous position and firmly planting his feet on the thick rubber mat below. He held his breath to muster up as much strength as he could and, this time, he barely made it to the same height.

“ _Fuck!_ ” He swore to himself yet loud enough that the surrounding doctor and assistant could hear. He was almost shocked by the amount of energy it wiped him of, how heavily he was already breathing. What the fuck? Was it supposed to be this hard? How was he going gain his strength back quick enough if he could barely lift his body up?

“It’s alright," His physical therapist said, stepping closer to him, "I'm glad you're gung-ho about starting, but you'll have to take it step by step. Your arms are almost as weak as your legs, which we will be working on all day, but the point of this part of rehab today is strengthening your legs. So, use me as your guard, but focus on using your legs to push yourself up." The doctor took hold of John Doe's upper body and nudged him to the edge of the chair, shockingly much easier than John Doe had done it himself. He chocked the scowl he held upon his lips to the effort he tried to exert as the doctor moved him rather than one of annoyance. 

The doctor did it as if it was second nature, as if John Doe was actually the infant he refused to believe he was. This was a, what, 50 year old man? He was weaker than a person who could be categorized as ‘elderly’?

John Doe took hold of Dr. Gramps’ arms and felt him lean him a bit forward to him gain his footing. He tried to focus this time on placing his weight towards his feet, practically swinging himself forward, which did get him upright, but they soon crumbled, bending sideways, right under him and almost collapsed on the floor before Gramps caught him. He swore again, placed back in the wheelchair.

“We have enough time. You can do this.” Somehow his voice just kept getting more and more irritating with every encouraging word he spoke. John Doe rubbed his temples to just make it, him, everything disappear. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not _okay_.” He was exasperated, suffocated. “None of this is okay!”

Gramps didn’t say anything this time and John Doe was more than relieved by that. He just encapsulated his hands around his eyes, appreciating the shield it created as he pretended that neither of those two were there. And, for a moment, it worked until a hand appeared in the line of his vision, on top of his gown-covered knee. His hands twitched, feeling the itch to punch the lights out of Gramps if that was his hand, but the voice that came immediately after…

John Doe looked up to see it was that familiar redhead. “Can we have a minute?” The doctor and the assistant soon walked off to another part of the room, out of earshot. 

“The fuck you doin’ here? Didn’t you have work today?” John Doe asked, azure eyes looking Ian up and down in his crouched position. Ian was still dressed in his uniform, so what he was doing here in the middle of the day?

“I did,” Ian nodded, his own verdant eyes meeting John Doe’s with a smile, “But I took a half day. I thought you would need support on your first day of physical therapy.” He glanced at the two therapists and back to him. “Looks like I was right.”

John Doe looked away, mumbling, “I don’t need it.” He wondered how much Ian had seen, how much he’d heard, but at least he could deny everything if he hadn’t.

“Sure, tough guy. Look, you may think you can’t do this, but—”

“Because I fucking _can’t_.”

“Even so, _I_ think you can—”

“You don’t even know me.”

Ian suppressed a sigh, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers for a moment before looking back up at him. “I don’t need to know you personally to know this. You wanna walk, right? Get outta here?”

John Doe made a face that should’ve proven that was a dumb question to ask when knowing the obvious answer. 

“If you really wanted it that badly, you’d make it happen. Remember what I said? ‘The more cooperative you are, the quicker you get out’? I meant, it’s all up to you. You think you can’t? You never be able to. You think you can, well, you’ll be one step closer to finding your way home. Dr. Kent over there—” He nodded towards the physical therapist who was conversing with his assistant and glancing over at the two males frequently. That was his name… “You actually want someone as old as him to be able to do everything you could be doing and more? He could walk in and out of here as he pleases while you’re stuck in your hospital bed. You really want that?”

“Fuck no,” John Doe replied, voice laced with annoyance at the thought. Or was that envy?

“Then you know what you gotta fucking do… Right?”

Eyes of blue just stared at the redhead. What did he even know about this? He wasn’t the one in a fucking wheelchair. He wasn’t the who couldn’t raise his arms to elbow height and John Doe had short arms as it was. He wasn’t the one who could barely even swallow. What perspective could he have on this? EMTs saved people and shit, sure, but John Doe was fairly certain—as certain as he could he could be in his circumstance—Ian couldn’t have known.

Yet, somehow, he found relief from the EMT’s words. The tension that twisted his mind, his heart, his body into stiffness like a boa constrictor ready for its next prey—he could feel it slipping away, shedding from his skin. Slowly. The desire to be better than the guy at least 20 years his senior filling him.

“Right?” Ian repeated, having not gotten an answer. 

“Right. Sure. Whatever.”

Ian nodded, patting his knee before standing up, gesturing the two therapists over. 

“We’re ready to try again?” Gramps, or Dr. Kent, asked, reaching the two.

Ian looked to him in the wheelchair, expecting an answer, but John Doe’s gaze stayed on black flooring, the machines around the room of which he had no close what they could even be used for, anything but the medical personnel that all stood around him. Ian answered for him. “Yes, we’re ready.”

“Great. I want to try something different this time, however.”

Now, both Ian and John Doe looked up at him. What more could he have? There wasn’t any progress made, so what else did he want from him?

“Mr. Gallagher—”

“Ian.”

“Ian,” He corrected, “Take my place.”

Ian voiced John Doe’s internal question. “What?”

“I don’t mean take over his therapy. I mean, right now, take my place and help him through the exercises. I will guide you. Maybe we’ll make a little more progress with someone he was a bit more familiar with.” Neither of them said anything this time. “From what I understand, you’ve been by his side since he was brought in, correct? You were the first person he saw when he came to.” Again, they said nothing. “He may be less guarded around you. It’s worked with other patients of mine, so it’s worth a try.”

Ian nodded moments later. “Um, sure. I’ll try.”

Gramps guided Ian to the previous position he was in and repeated the instructions to both of them. John Doe was just as annoyed—maybe a little less so—that Ian could move him just as easily as the doctor previously had, but, again, he said nothing. 

“Okay, whenever you’re ready, you may begin.”

John Doe looked to the doctor and then to Ian, whose gaze stayed intently on his. It felt like Ian was trying to read him and it unnerved him, especially being so close. Ian nodded as if there was a telepathic conversation that went on between them. “You got this.”

_You got this._

John Doe inhaled deeply and slowly let it out as he gathered himself. He’d been shaking since Ian had taken hold of him, but he refused to focus on it and drew his attention to his lower muscles. He grimaced as he moved his weight to his feet once more, more careful this time, and Ian whispered short, but encouraging words to him as his legs quivered underneath him. He could feel the air running out of his lungs as he sacrificed the energy he had to breathe for getting off that godforsaken wheelchair that made him feel like an invalid. 

“Breathe...” Ian spoke. “I don’t want you to pass out.”

John Doe ignored the part of him that urged to be defiant and tell Ian to shut the fuck up because he knew he was right. He was starting to feel light-headed, so he released the air through his lips and continued pushing off the wheelchair.

“You’re doing it!” Ian’s excitement came out like the air John Doe breathed in and out. The latter’s gaze left Ian’s, down to his legs. They were at more of an angle than they last were, higher than he last was off the chair, and before he knew it, he was upright. His legs were shaking so much that they were about to give out on him, but he was fucking _standing_. “You did it…”

John Doe’s eyes left the floor and floated back up to Ian’s, which were sparkling with excitement, pride, as if it was such a miraculous feat not for just anyone. His eyes were enough to figure that out besides the wide grin he wore. It was then that John Doe realized he was actually pretty short compared to the redhead. Ian had maybe three inches on him, but it felt like he towered over him. Yes, Ian had always been taller for as long as he’d consciously known him, which was all of 3 days, but he’d always been laying down. It wasn’t wasn’t much of a comparison until now.

With a clear of his throat, he looked down, feeling himself lose the strength to keep him standing—or whatever he was doing as he felt all his weight leaning against Ian. “Can—can you put me down now?”

Ian did as asked, setting him back in his previous position.

“Great!” Dr. Kent exclaimed with a clap of his hand, ripping both John Doe’s and Ian’s attention from each other. “We’ve gotten over the first hurdle. Now, we need to repeat that a few more times.”

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonding moment, yay~  
> Leave comments for me to come back to and let the know what you think! :D


	7. Big Blue.

Ian slowly started to realize that since his rescue-ee had woken up, he had spent literally every day in the hospital—outside of work, even on his off days. It wasn’t like he had any better plans anyway. But he had yet to explain why he missed the Gallagher family night that first night, however, and he hadn't seen Carl, Liam or Fiona as much as he used to, which still wasn't very much as it was, but he hadn’t talked to Lip as often and that was much more than he saw the other half of his family—just a few text messages here and there. Both he and Fiona had reached out to Ian and Ian couldn't get himself to tell them what he’d been up to. 

It wasn’t so much as he didn’t know _how_ or _what_ to tell them, it was more so ‘why’. Why had he picked this guy off the street when he could have very well OD’d on some narcotic, get shot for crossing a gang, or maybe he just lived on the street and got it in with the wrong crowd in the wrong territory? Why had he been by his side when he woke up? Why had he helped him through therapy?

There were no answers. At least, Ian didn’t have any. It just was something he felt he had to do. Maybe it was the same way he felt when he first helped that lady on the street, an incident that paved the way to him becoming an EMT.

But he was so proud now. So proud of the progress his John Doe was making this past week . Albeit a little progress, but progress nonetheless. It was like a parent watching a child reach each milestone in their life, just like he felt watching Liam at his Kindergarten graduation, and Ian, being new to all this, was part of that progress.

By no means was it an easy one. Too many times did John Doe fall into the mindset that caused him to still. Some days he wouldn’t get up from bed, wouldn’t even allow the windows to be opened; other days, he just raged. Ian would have to talk him down many times, seeming to be the only one who could get through to him, but there were times he also had to leave him alone. Ian knew from experience when he himself was in his low periods of his Bipolar Disorder that was all he wanted. No amount of family members, of supporting words, would get through to him as they hoped to.

Despite all that, John Doe had managed to sit up on his own and stand with assistance, but he could only stay standing for about ten, fifteen minutes before he was completely wiped out, which was a hell of a lot better than before where he couldn’t even do any of that. Ian also gave him the duty to wash his upper body himself, at least when he was around.

Now, he was moved to soft foods and that itself was a comical endeavor at first. John Doe’s first meal was at breakfast, of which he selected. On his tray came oatmeal, mashed bananas, a cup of milk, and a cup of orange juice. There weren’t a lot of items on the list that were remotely appetizing to him. The moment he picked up his spoon barely trembling, just days into physical therapy, Ian was instantly on edge, thoughts of John Doe choking on the food filling his mind. He was supposed to be fine with it, medically, but that didn’t stop Ian from watching him intently, ready to perform the Heimlich maneuver in a split second should the situation call for it. Thankfully, it didn’t, but John Doe was quick to spit it out as soon as it touched his tongue and wouldn't eat it. Apparently, it tasted like cardboard. 

The only disappointing aspect of all of this was that his memory still hadn’t come back. The doctor had proposed psychotherapy finally, but John Doe had refused, to Ian's dismay. He told them he didn’t believe in that “mumbo-jumbo shit”, which struck Ian as odd that he would say that. Ian questioned how he even know what he believed if he didn’t know his life before this and John Doe just shrugged, his typical answer for everything, replying with he wasn’t sure, but he just didn’t understand it or see how it could possibly work. But he was his own person, even if he didn't know who that person what. No matter the arguments Ian made he still refused that treatment and so Ian had to let him be.

It was time for dinner again and Ian just watched John Doe sitting up in his bed, eating his food, not wanting to talk before he was done. It took John Doe a little bit of time to finish what he had since he could only eat slowly. Ian could tell he still hated the taste, it being bland pressurized food—his corn was this yellow mush that was formed into a detailed shape of half a corn cob cut straight down the middle of its length, and his chicken was a marginally darker shredded lump than his mashed potatoes and gravy that was scooped to the side—but Ian encouraged him to eat it. He wasn’t entirely sure if all food tasted like that to John Doe as if it was a side effect to not having eaten real food in over a week or if it was just his soft food diet.

“Y’know,” Ian started as he leaned back in his seat, swallowing the chocolate pudding his patient refused to eat no matter the protests—it was too sweet for him—as the latter had set down his spoon, leaving his plate two thirds of the way finished. That was the usual amount he left on his tray now, getting full very quickly against his will. Ian was sure he hadn’t minded since he wasn’t so fond of the food anyway. “I think we should give you a name rather than walking around—” He received a look from the dark-haired patient and Ian shot him a sheepish grin. “Sorry, bad phrasing. Rather than living with ‘F-U John Doe’ as your name.”

“F-U John Doe…?”

“Oh shit,” Ian covered his hand over his mouth. The nurses never called him that when they were around him, always in conversation with other nurses, conversations of which Ian often overheard since he was there every day.

“Who the fuck calls me that?” John Doe prodded. He didn’t sound any more upset than he usually did by default, but it was still something Ian had hoped never to bring up, so he said nothing. “Ian…”

“No one…really.” The redhead replied slowly, gaze faltering from his. “You were a John Doe when I brought you in, which is, by default, what all law enforcement and medical personnel give unnamed individuals, and the tattoo on your knuckles was an outstanding feature that separated you from any other John Doe’s in the hospital between nurses, I guess…” 

John Doe looked down at his hands and he ran fingers over it just as he did the first day, but he said nothing.

“So, yeah, it’s odd not calling you by a name, so we should probably come up with something in the meantime.”

“Meantime?”

“Until your memories come back, of course.” John Doe just nodded in reply. “What about…J.D?”

John Doe’s expression contorted into a confused one. Or a disgusted one? They all looked the same. “’J.D.’? Do I look like a J.D.?”

“Well, it’s the abbreviated version of John Doe since that’s what you are.”

“I don’t wanna be fucking called J.D., or John Doe, or whatever.”

“Alright, alright, we won’t call you that.” Ian surrendered. “Then, what about…Pup?"

"No fucking way." He was quick to answer. "Why the fuck 'Pup'?"

Ian shrugged easily. "When you're not on default stank face you remind me of a cute, little puppy dog." Ian ignored the offended look on the still-nameless patient.

"Try again."

"Tiger?"

"What is with you and these animal names?"

“Shit, then, what do you want to be called?”

“I don’t know,” John Doe shrugged. “Don’t really care.”

Ian looked at him with an incredulous expression. The fuck he means he ‘doesn’t really care’ while Ian’s here throwing everything out there, yet he doesn’t like any of them? “Okay, y’know what, we’re just going to go with Blue. I’ve dubbed it. You’re welcome.”

“Blue? The fuck kind of pussy-ass name is that?”

Of course.

“Well, fuck, can you come up with something better then? You’re the one that said it didn’t matter.” Ian waited for a response and, as he figured, he got none. “That’s what I thought.”

“But you couldn’t have come up with something a little tougher than that?”

“’Blue’ could totally be a tough name. Or 'Big Blue'. I can see this huge guy in prison with a scar down one eye, a five o-clock shade, all dirty and gross, with a blue tattoo of death on his huge-ass bicep and no one would mess with him.” He watched John Doe mouth the word multiple times, trying to get it to sound right to him and probably also trying to picture that idea Ian had painted.

“Why… _‘Blue’_ though...?”

“Well, more so than your knuckles, your eyes were the first things that stuck out to me. Like...like an ocean under pristine glass.”

John Doe was quiet for a few beats before he spoke. “Whatever. I still don’t like it.” He shrugged before sipping on his milk carton and Ian rolled his eyes.

“Well, come up with something better and then we’ll see, jackass.” 

Suddenly, the door opened. Ian had thought it was the nurse or the kitchen personnel to come retrieve his tray. He was only half right. In came the nurse and behind her followed two police officers. The hairs along the back of Ian's neck and arms immediately stood as he fully turned around, wondering what this was about. What could have possibly happened for them to send in government officials?

“Sorry to disturb your dinner, but the police insisted they come in…” The nurse said, apologetically. 

Ian stood up, almost guarding the patient in bed, as they walked up to the two. His eyes fleeted back and forth between each officer. One was taller than the other who looked to be just a few years older. “For what?”

The older cop cleared his throat and spoke first. “I'm Officer McGinny and this is Officer Harris. We paid a visit a little over a week ago to question this John Doe about the shooting he was in, but he had been unconscious at the time. We had investigated area and found a pound of marijuana stashed in a nearby location only a few feet from where he was found.”

Marijuana? Ian looked to John Doe, or Blue as he had earlier decided, who was looking at him with an expression just as shocked as his. There was that puppy dog look. Ian turned back to the officers. “And you think he had something to do with it?”

“We cannot say for certain, but the marijuana was tested and links to an open case regarding a large drug deal chain we have been working on for months, occurring in that same area where he was found. But we would like to speak to him privately to discuss the matter.”

Ian felt defiant, guarded. That was all they had? There was no way he was going to leave Blue alone in the hands of Chicago PD, knowing full well they would take whatever they could get against Southsiders whether or not they were guilty. There was no way Blue could take them on himself; they'd probably twist his words around to make him take the fall for whatever they wanted. 

Ian was one of the few Gallaghers that didn’t have too many issues with the cops, despite them taking him in a couple times for bigger offenses that really couldn't be helped, but that didn’t mean they weren’t a constant annoyance in their lives. “Whatever you have to say to him, you can say with me in the room.”

“And you are?” The taller cop, Harris, asked, directing his question to Ian.

“Ian Gallagher. I’m the one that found him and brought him here."

"Well, Mr. Gallagher, we would like to take him in for questioning." McGinny continued. 

"But I don't know anything," Blue chimed in, causing Ian to turn to him again. His voice seemed to bordering along some other emotion... Fear? To anyone else, it may have sounded normal, but Ian had been talking to him, holding more and more conversations for the past week and a half that he had been awake and there was something different as he spoke now compared to just ten minutes ago.

“Right, what good will that even do? He doesn’t even remember who he is; let alone know what a pound of weed is doing in the area. He can’t even walk on his own right now.”

“We can accommodate for whatever he needs—”

“You can’t accommodate for shit because whatever you’re trying to solve won’t be solved with him—” Ian was cut off by the sound of someone coughing in the background. He turned to find Blue coughing up the milk he just seemed to be drinking at the moment, almost doing exactly what Ian worried about with his eating. He immediately stepped to his side with a napkin, handing it to him, cleaning up the spill on the bed table. 

"But we must insist—"

“You have nothing on him; no money from supposed drug deals, no drugs were actually found in his system when he was found, for all you know he could have been an innocent bystander in the wrong place and the wrong time. This is the Southside; you’re gong to have to come up with something better than that. I think you guys will need to come back when he actually knows something, if he even does know anything. ”

“Still, I think we should present to him the case. See if anything jogs his memory.” The taller cop spoke this time, walking up to Blue and took hold of his arm forcefully. Blue ripped his arm away, wincing when the sudden jerk knocked over the unfinished milk carton, creating a bigger mess.

“I'm sorry, officers; I will have to ask you to leave, so our John Doe can finish his meal in peace,” The nurse spoke, guiding them towards the door. “You have gotten all that you can get out of him. Any more stress to him won’t help his recovery. Thank you.” She closed the door in their faces. It seemed like Southsiders in general weren’t too fond of police either. ”Sorry, guys. I had to let him get something since you were unconscious last time, but I doubt that will be the last time we see them.”

“It’s alright. Thanks.” Ian shot a small smile to her and turned his attention to Blue. “You alright?”

Blue nodded. “Just drank too fast.” 

Ian pursed his lips, nodding in reply as he rubbed Blue's back. He stayed silent, replaying the conversation with the police officers. Drug deals? Well, it was the Southside; that wasn’t something that was entirely shocking. Shit, Lip and Kev sold weed and other recreational drugs every summer when they were younger and Carl and Frank were doing it for a little bit before Fiona’s ex-fiancé got Carl out of it. Who _doesn’t_ sell drugs down here, honestly?

But no one even knew if Blue was from their neck of the woods. Honestly, by the way he talked, Ian was leaning towards he was actually a Chicagoan from the Southside too, but who knows, it could be the same way of speech a New Yorker had. He’d never been outside of Chicago within the main part of civilization to really know.

If Blue was even a part of this drug deal thing, was he in deep? Did he have dangerous people looking for him? Did he owe people? Was the why he actually was left for dead that day?

Ian looked down at the man before him who was cleaning up the rest of the table and putting the wet tissues onto his plate, condemning the rest of the food on there, and he couldn’t really come up with an answer.

“Thanks…for that,” Blue mumbled not looking up at Ian, who smiled just as softly in reply.

“Sure,” He sat down back in his seat, “Southsiders got each other’s backs.”

Blue chuckled, “We don’t even know if I’m a Southsider.”

“True, but you’re in the Southside now, so I got your back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it was time to get rid of 'John Doe' and start to make him a "real person" lol


	8. Accomplishments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't planned, pretty much stemmed from keyboard smashing, but I'm glad it happened lol

"I still don't like the name..."

Ian rolled his eyes, keeping Blue steady as he took his time pushing himself off his hospital bed bed. Blue still hadn't stopped complaining about the name every time Ian used it. "Well, it's not your actual name, it's just a nickname," He said, watching Blue's feet do a mini march in its place. Ian never asked why he did that--maybe it was intentional, maybe it was involuntary—but he assumed it was to get used to the feeling of his feet against the floor to help give himself a better stance.

"Still." Blue said, now on his own two feet. Ian wouldn't let go, watching his knees wobble, but Blue didn't say anything about it and kept his hold on Ian, fingers bunched up in the crook of his elbows of his hoodie.

Ian felt his weight lean heavier on him when Blue took his first step and locked his stance into the ground as he took a step back, allowing Blue to follow suit. It was very tedious and slow, but it would pay off in the end when Ian gets to see him walking without his help. "Did you come up with anything yet, then?" Ian expected a jackass comment, but he didn't get one. He didn't get a comment at all. Ian looked up when the weight against him started to get heavier. Blue's eyes were drooping, but he seemed to have caught himself, shaking his head to get rid of whatever it was away or collect himself and his weight got lighter.

He took two more steps and it happened again.

"Hey..." Ian called him to attention, "You okay? You tired or something?"

Blue cleared his throat, straightening himself up. "Naw, I'm good."

"You sure?" Ian held on to him tighter, eyes filled with worry. Was he dizzy? Straining himself too much with the walk already? "Should I call the doctor?"

“No—No, Ian, I'm fine." Blue let go to rub his forehead, which caused him to lose the balance barely had and Ian had to fully support him in his arms. Just looking into Blue's eyes Ian could tell he wasn't focusing on anything, not even his face right in front of him. Or maybe he couldn't.

"Okay, come on," Ian carefully moved him back onto the bed, propping him up against the raised bed and placed his hand against Blue's forehead for a moment and then his cheek for a longer moment when Blue didn't move. "We'll take a break from the walk tonight... You're sure I don't need to call the doctor?"

"I'm sure... Just...just haven't been sleeping very well."

"No?" Ian frowned, sitting down in his seat. For as long as he would stare at Blue, Ian wasn't sure why he hadn't seen those dark circles under his eyes until now. "How long do you sleep for?"

Blue shrugged, looking down at his chest or his hands, Ian wasn't sure from his angle. "An hour sometimes... Maybe two."

"What? For how long?"

Again, he shrugged. "Since I woke up..."

"Blue, you've been awake for damn near three weeks," Ian spoke in disbelief. The hell did he mean he hadn’t been sleeping since he woke up? He should be barely functioning right now. ”Why haven't you been sleeping?"

"Can't."

"But why not?"

" _Because I fucking can't_ , I don't know—" He snapped, though it held less of a bite around his words than usual. Ian said nothing, not wanting to poke the fire any more than he needed. Blue rubbed his eyes again and settled them onto Ian's, who didn't break the gaze either. But it seemed like it broke Blue because he sighed, letting his gaze fall, and continued on. "Every time I close my eyes and fall asleep, I have these...dreams, or nightmares, or some shit that wakes me up in a fucking panic and I can't ever remember what it is when I do, but I know I can't go to sleep after, I won't."

"But you can't force yourself awake forever, you know that, right?" Blue said nothing. "Maybe you subconsciously aren't letting yourself remember?" That got Blue's attention. "Maybe whatever happened to you that day was pretty bad that you just really don't want to remember?"

Blue mumbled, "If that's the case, maybe it's better that I don't remember who I am... Especially if the police are involved..."

Ian opened his mouth to respond, but he soon closed it back, not exactly knowing what to say. They hadn't brought up the police visit that happened a few days ago and Ian wasn't going to if Blue didn't want to talk about it. The look on his face that day broke Ian. Blue may not had wanted to admit it, especially if he's going around acting like a tough guy, but he needed help, help he always refused, help he never asks for.

And, yes, it was probably safer if he didn't know, from the police anyway, but it probably wasn't either if he actually was involved in it because he just becomes a sitting duck, an easier target. It didn't sit right with him to tell Blue, ‘Yeah, don't bother learning about yourself; don't bother knowing who you are, who cares?’

“We'll figure it out," Ian settled on saying. He wasn’t exactly sure what they were going to figure out—how? One step at a time. ”For now, just try to get some sleep. Hm?" He patted Blue's arm affectionately and stood up, Blue’s head following Ian’s path to the couch on the other side of the hospital bed, only a couple feet from him. He fell onto the green covered furniture, unfortunately misjudging the amount of the cushion, or lack there thereof, the couch had as a jolt ran from his tailbone up his spine. Pulling his sleeves over his hands and his hoodie more around his body, he settled back into the couch, laying his head on the wooden arm. This was much more uncomfortable than he had expected. “I’ll be right here.”

“You have work in the morning.”

“It’s fine. I’ll leave here around 5.”

“I’m not tired, Ian.”

Ian nodded. “Sure. You should probably relay that message to the rest of your body. You look like you’re going to pass out.” He’d never spent a night at the hospital since Blue woke up, figuring he would give Blue time to himself since he was always around people and the nurses came around less frequently at night. But Ian thought he’d been actually sleeping every night that he left too. Not this time. He decided to stay the night. Maybe he couldn’t sleep well without a familiar body in the room. Maybe if he did have another nightmare, then he would need someone by his side.

* * *

Blue spent the rest of the night making small talk with Ian, or rather Ian was making small talk with Blue. He was pretty sure Ian was just talking out of his ass, so he could stay awake longer himself, but it was also pulling Blue from the exhaustion his mind and his body was falling into, not having an ounce of adequate sleep. Ian had come to the hospital from work earlier as usual, so there was no way he would have been able to stay awake all night as planned, based on the amount of action he got at work from the stories he had told Blue.

Half of the things Ian tells him he refuses to believe, thinking he got them from some E.R. TV show or movie, or something. Ian could have been making shit up about his occupation and Blue would not have been any of the wiser. But at the same time, he had a strange feeling that Ian wouldn’t lie to him. About anything.

Despite whether they had been made up stories or not, Blue knew Ian would come to the hospital most times tired and this was one of those times. Ian was nodding off by 2 a.m. and officially passed not even an hour after that. 

The silence that filled the dimly illuminated room only conduced a series of thoughts in his mind. Many oddly of Ian, which he guessed was easy to do since he was right in front of him. Blue just stared at Ian's sleeping form, huddled in the fold of the couch, head bent forward in an awkward and, seemingly uncomfortable, angle, yet, he was surprisingly knocked out, Blue concluded, when he called Ian's name to check if he was truly asleep. He seemed content. Looked it. Blue could easily imagine him as a mere child with the same innocent expression on his face. His long lashes splayed over his freckled cheeks, matching red hair brushed back and tucked under his hoodie aside from the free tendril that fell over his forehead, and his perfectly bow-shaped lips fell apart, letting loose light snores. Blue imagined his angled jaw would be rounder, maybe with a little bit more meat on his cheeks, as a child, but everything would probably look the exact same. 

It made him wonder what he himself looked like as a child too. What was he like? Ian seemed to be an innocent child, though he swore just as much as he did…probably a little less so. Was Blue the same way? Was he the complete opposite? What kind of life did any of those personalities cause him to live now—well, before his memory was wiped clean?

Blue was starting to feel uncomfortable, just watching Ian sleep in that position. With a sigh, he pushed off the blankets Ian covered him with earlier and pulled himself against the railing closest to Ian’s side with the strength he could muster up, which was so much more than he started off with. He was starting to feel a little less useless. Just a little.

He lowered the bed to its lowest position and lifted and pushed his legs one after the other until they hung over the edge of the bed, just like he’d practiced earlier with Ian. With one arm holding onto the bed rail, he used the other to tug his wheelchair closer to the edge of the bed. Thankfully, Ian kept the wheels locked. Now, this was something he hadn’t practiced yet. Getting into it on his own. That wasn’t something they were going to go over in, maybe, a couple more weeks, but he had felt he needed to do this while he got the chance.

Blue took one of his pillows and threw it onto the floor, knowing he wouldn’t be able to grab the pillow from being in an unreachable angle soon. He adjusted his legs, using his hands, and crawled over the wheelchair until he had grasped both arms, his torso hovering over the seat. His arms trembled, still not used to carrying even half his body weight, but he was going to suck it up and tough it through. 

Sucking in his lips between his teeth, he clamped down and breathed out as he pushed himself up and out of bed. He wouldn't dare let himself fall, he wouldn’t dare make any sound to avoid waking Ian up and having him rush to his side as he always did. So, through his struggle, shaking more fiercely and breathing shallowly for extra strength, he carried himself towards the wheelchair and prayed to God he didn’t lose his balance before his ass touched the seat. He equalized his efforts of his arms and legs to guide him into the chair and only allowed the tiniest of squeaks from the plastic and bolts of the wheelchair once he sat down. 

A breathy and silent laugh escaped his lips as he took in the fact that he made it into his wheelchair on his own. By his fucking self! He reveled in silent victory and his first instinct was to tell Ian, but then he realized, right, he was asleep. He’ll show Ian another day. 

Pulling the blanket off the bed and bunching it up in his lap, he picked the pillow he threw on the floor, dusting it off, and placed it on top of the blanket. He bent over to unlock the wheels so he could freely move. Now, he hadn’t exactly practiced wheeling himself, but, hey, there’s a first time for everything, right? Blue experimented with pushing one wheel at a time, getting the feel for it, and wheeled himself closer to Ian. 

About 40 minutes had passed from the moment he decided to get off the bed to the moment he sat right by Ian’s head, so Ian shouldn’t be waking up any time soon. He hoped. Blue folded the pillow, knowing how thin it was normally, and reached a hand towards his head. He hesitated, hand stuttering in its path. A part of him was wary of waking him; another part questioning his motives because why the fuck was he doing this? 

Oh, right. 

Ian looked uncomfortable. Maybe he could help prevent the crick in his neck that would most likely happen when he wakes up. He shook his vacillation away before cupping the back of Ian’s head and lifting it up to place the folded pillow right under him. Blue quickly, yet gently, set his head onto the pillow when Ian stirred in his sleep. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath nor did he realize his hand was on Ian’s cheek until Ian settled in his place, still asleep. He let go of that breath, but he didn’t let go of Ian.

His hand against Ian's cheek was as stark as paper against paper. Ian was just as pale as he was, despite faint freckles that littered his cheeks and nose. 

In addition to innocent-looking, Ian was…what, caring? Generous as fuck? Blue wasn’t entirely sure what people in general actually were like, but he was pretty sure there weren’t that many people who would stick by him for as along as he did, or even at all. Ian had no idea who he was, what kind of person he was—he was a complete stranger and the only “connection” that could be made, with no logical evidence, was one of drugs and, still, he stuck by him? Who did that kind of shit? And, not once did he ask for anything in return, not like Blue could’ve given anything back even if he wanted to.

Why did he do what he did?

Blue cleared his throat, careful not to wake him, and threw the blanket over his body, making sure to cover every part of his body. When he deemed Ian comfortable enough, Blue looked behind him. The room looked so much bigger from where he sat. He grasped the wheels and pulled it back, reversing him closer to the bed and he pushed one wheel to turn him in the direction he needed to go. Pushing both wheels, he wheeled himself around the room, starting to get the hang of it. He wheeled to where the tv hung. He wheeled to the bathroom and opened the door—just a bathroom, nothing spectacular. The closet by the bed—extra pillows, towels, linings, and Ian’s backpack and his EMT jacket. The bedside cabinet—the top drawer held the pink basin he used to take bed baths with, a pink bedpan he used to brush his teeth, a toothbrush, mini toothpaste, razor, and bar soap all individually packaged; the second drawer held a bible, which he picked up and flipped through, not finding much interest in it, so he put it back; and the third drawer was empty—how unfortunate. 

Blue wheeled himself to the little space between the wall and the couch Ian was sleeping on so he could look out of the window. He pushed back the generic curtain enough to fit his face and looked out into the empty streets of the neighborhood. There were only two cars that drove through it in the time he stared out of the window. There were a lot of buildings down the street, groups of similar looking structures. Businesses? They really could also have been apartments; he couldn’t have been really sure. There were actual houses he could see. The trees showed effects of the late fall weather, almost bare with brown leaves that littered the ground. He didn't know for sure but he could predict it was a bit cold. He would've opened the window had Ian not been laying right in front of it. He hadn't even gotten to breathe in that non-sterile air yet or feel the coolness of Chicago breeze. 

It was all so unfamiliar. He couldn’t even tell you where he was. He knew it was Cook County Hospital in Chicago, but where exactly? What street was he even on? Were there parks around here? Stores? Which path or streets even held his home?

It was nearing 4:30 now and Blue knew Ian had to get up soon. He would have to get back in bed eventually, too, before the nurse would come in again. He wasn't even sure if he was allowed to be out of bed for whatever reason, unsupervised. The only times he got out in general was when Ian or a nurse was helping him into the wheelchair for therapy or when Ian was helping him walk outside of therapy, which was less frequent than the authorized time because Ian didn't want to push him too hard. Blue didn't want to get his wheelchair privileges taken away for this, if so, because this was a great fucking achievement.

Just a little less useless.

It had taken him just as long to get back into bed as it did to get out, if not a little more. It was much harder to pull himself up. He needed to work more on that. He at least got back into bed by the time Ian’s alarm on his phone went off...blaring on his bedside cabinet...while Ian was on the other side of the room. Oh my God, was it really fucking obnoxious. And he wasn’t waking up, a couple minutes past five.

“‘Ey, Red.” Blue called out, but got no response. He’s a deep-ass sleeper. “Ian… _YO._ ” He chucked his last remaining pillow at the redhead, whose head sprung up immediately, trying to fight off whatever demon was trying to take him in his sleep. Blue bit down his laughter. 

“ _What the fuck?_ ” Ian groaned, eyes barely open.

Blue pointed to the phone. “Yo, it’s 5. Your phone’s going off in my fucking ear, Sleeping Beauty.”

He groaned again, pushing the blankets off him, and sat up, hunching over his knees and ran his hands over his face. “Sorry. Can you throw it over here?”

Blue leaned over and grabbed the phone, tossing it to Ian, who barely even caught it. He wasn’t sure why Ian had asked him to throw it to him if he was barely even awake. 

Ian silenced the alarm, squinting at the screen. “Shit, I gotta go… When did I fall asleep…? Wait, when did this pillow and blanket get here?” He asked, now noticing the additions to his makeshift bed.

“You knocked out around 2:30 or something.”

“Damn, I didn’t mean to fall asleep…” He ran his fingers through his hair, lowering his hood back onto his shoulders. He stood up, slipping his phone into his back pocket, still looking out of it. A part of him felt bad. He must have been so tired. “Did you actually fall asleep?”

Blue shrugged as Ian walked over to the closet, grabbing his bookbag, but didn’t answer. If he didn’t answer, he wouldn’t have to say no.

“Blue?” Ian urged on, looking over at him when he closed the closet door.

Blue sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Three hours later and he still wasn’t going to let it go… “I’m fine, Ian.”

“No, Blue, you’re not fine. You almost passed out from exhaustion.” Ian walked over to his bedside and looked intensely at him, the sleep Ian needed more of seeming to have gone away in that moment. It unnerved Blue, made him lean back against the propped up bed as if he could move away any further. “You need to sleep. I know it scares you, but—”

Blue narrowed his eyes, his gaze hardening. “I am not fucking scared of an— You need to go home and get ready for work, man.”

“I don’t ne—”

“Jesus. I’ll go to sleep if you go to fucking work, okay?”

“…You mean it?”

“Yeah. Sure. Just get off my back, jeez. You’re going to be late if you don’t go.” Ian stayed where he stood. Blue gave him a pointed look and Ian eventually backed down. Finally. Begrudgingly. Ian hesitated to walk away, knowing it wasn't that easy, but he knew he had to. He had no choice. 

Ian sighed. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Think you could hand me my pillows before you leave?” Blue nodded over to the pillow on the floor. Ian did as asked, including the the one on the couch which he picked up with confusion, glancing back at the bed. The realization that he still didn’t know how he got one of Blue’s pillows or blanket.

“How did these get here?”

Blue contemplated on actually telling Ian for a moment, but he stuck to his previous thought and shrugged. “The nurse came in and I told her to give them to you. You looked uncomfortable.” Ian nodded and walked over to him, placing the pillows behind his head, placing the blanket back over him.

“You good?”

Blue nodded. “Get outta here.”

Ian chuckled and bid his final farewell before he hurried out of the room, having already stayed past his initial intention. As soon as the door closed behind the redhead, Blue let his head fall back into his pillows. He wished it was that easy for him to fall asleep. Other than facilitating his own recovery and just being good for his health, or some shit, it really would have helped time move along faster.


	9. Nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but sweet. Well...Not really sweet. I'm sorry in advance. Lol.

Blue couldn’t be sure, but something about this felt right, comfortable, a mix of worry and little of hesitation, but he felt like he belonged. And, after experiencing the opposite for so long, he was elated at this new feeling; although he welcomed it as much as a cat welcomed their new home, an environment so unfamiliar.

Their embrace. The warmth on his cheek. What he thought were lips on his. He couldn’t see a face. He couldn’t see anything, so his eyes were probably closed. 

But then the next thing he knew, he was ripped away from that feeling. It became dark, so dark, yet he could see again and it was sunny. He was outside. Barren surroundings and train tracks held up by a vandalized, stoned platform. A train was passing by right above him. Them. It was loud, loud enough to muffle the yells that were happening around him. Was one of them his own? Whoever was with him, the one who had embraced him, was gone. They ran away in a blur, leaving Blue to fend for himself when he collided with the ground. Gravel. Glass. His arms were splattered with red and gray and the warmth he felt on his cheek earlier was replaced by sharp pulses. Pain shot through him like wildfire. 

More yelling. 

More deep hurt. 

He couldn't breathe.

His vision was blurry again, but this time because of tears. He knew that much.

That overwhelming fear was back as he was being shaken. 

He could hear himself repeating “I'm sorry” over and over again, filled with desperation. 

More shouting.

“Blue, wake up!”

His eyes shot open and it took a minute for him to regain his senses. His chest rose and fell heavily, trying to restore the air he seemed to have lost during whatever that was.

Ian.

Cerulean eyes were the first things he saw coming to once again, but he didn’t feel the confusion that ran through his mind like the first time he woke up from the coma.

“Hey,” Ian spoke softly and he could see the concern in his eyes that were betrayed by the small smile on his lips, as if he tried to bring him out of the darkness he was in. “You were having a bad dream... You okay?” 

Blue registered Ian’s thumb running under his eyes and then the warmth on his cheeks. Just like in his dream. Nightmare. Nothing good came out of being touched like that and Blue harshly pushed Ian away.

“Blue?” Now, the concern was taken over by shock at his sudden reaction.

“I’m so—” Just those words brought him back again and he couldn’t complete it. What was that? He ran his hands over his face. It was wet. Fuck, he was crying? He wiped his face quickly, trying to erase any of that evidence, but Ian had done it himself already, seen it. “How the hell did I fall asleep?” He asked no one in particular, more so to himself. The day seemed normal enough and he’d been doing well to avoid the sleep taking over. Nurses came in to check on him, he watched more things on TV, he was taken to physical therapy, more nurses he stopped paying attention to, meds— ...The meds? He usually took three, but he just realized he was given four. “That nurse fucking _drugged_ me?” He answered himself incredulously. What kind of hospital was this? Was this how they usually work? Throwing pills at patients for no goddamn reason? Who even authorized—

“Uhm, not exactly…”

Taken out of his thoughts, Blue looked up to Ian, who rubbed the back his neck. Ian could barely look him in the eyes. In the state he was in, he was okay with Ian looking at other things, but something was wrong with this picture. It wasn’t done for his own sake.

“What do you mean?” His words came out slowly, not understanding what he meant. It was pretty obvious. The nurse sneaked in something he wasn’t supposed to take. 

“I, uh, I told the nurse that you weren’t sleeping and asked to give you a sleeping pill…”

Blue’s hands fell to his lap, staring at Ian as something uncomfortable started bubbling up in his chest. Ian had to be kidding. “You did… _what_?”

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t sleep—”

“Yeah, and you should’ve left it the fuck alone!” 

Ian winced at the volume of Blue's voice. There was a little part of Blue that felt bad, a part of him that wanted to take it back down a few notches, but he was fucking pissed. 

"Blue, I had to!"

"No, you fucking didn't! You went against what I specifically told you, behind my fucking back— I told you I would've gone to sleep if you just left for work!"

“And you thought I would believe that?“ Ian raised his voice this time and Blue didn't flinch. Almost. “Honestly, would you have really gone to sleep?"

“Like that matters one goddamn bit? I _told_ you why. I told you what happens. What right did you fucking have to—”

“I’m all you have, Blue! Technically, I’m your guardian, so that alone gives me the right to whatever your treatment. And believe it or not, I fucking _care_ about you!”

“Fuck you, no one asked you to!”

Ian let out a sharp breath, a chuckle, a quirk in the corner of his mouth turning it into humorless smile. He shook his head slowly. He didn't say anything for a moment and it was more enough time for Blue's head and chest to fill with a boiling sensation. Blue dug his nails into his palms, looking at Ian's expression. Hurt?

“Fuck you," Ian finally spoke. With that, he left the room, Blue still on 10. The door slammed shut and he rolled his eyes. Good fucking riddance. The last thing he wanted to do was look at Ian right now. Anger boiled in the pit of his stomach, but also something else. Something strange and uneasy. 

He didn’t like that either.


	10. Two sides.

Ian thought about it, and thought about it, and thought about it again. He wasn’t sure why he was so riled up that night. It wasn’t like he was expecting words of appreciation or anything even close to that. Whenever Blue would find out what he had done, he knew it wouldn’t have been very happy conversation. Not like Blue was actually particularly happy about anything in general anyway… But, because Ian had come into the hospital to a knocked out Blue, he had assumed the latter had willingly taken it. The nurses apparently told him what he was taking. Leave it to him to not pay attention...

The image of Blue's face while he was asleep had popped into Ian's mind as he stared at the fake-fireplace mantle, tipping back his beer. When he had walked into the room, he was relieved at the peaceful expression. He was confused at the time remembering Blue had told him it was not a good feeling when he went to sleep. But, soon after, he immediately understood. Blue’s whole expression changed considerably. If felt like someone was twisting away at Ian's heart just watching him writhe in his sleep. Whatever Blue was dreaming about took a drastic turn. 

Did he remember the dream this time when he woke up? Ian could have sworn Blue was looking back at him clearly before he was harshly pushed away. So he couldn’t have still been in his dream state. By the delayed reaction Blue had when he came to, he must have remembered. Ian really wanted to know. He needed to know. Why he was so frightened? Why he was apologizing relentlessly in his sleep?

Ian was suddenly nudged out of his reverie.

"Dude, you're doing it again."

He turned to his older brother, who flopped onto the couch next to him as green eyes met crystal blue. A bright blue that held no genetic relation to his. A bright blue unlike the darker ones he had preferred to be staring into at the moment. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean what do I mean? The last time we hung out at the house you were out of it half the time too. What's up with you?"

Ian shook his head, eyes falling back to the beer bottle in his hand as he cradled one of the new throw pillows under his arms. He still found the fact that Lip had throw pillows funny even if Lip had informed him, after the latter called him a pansy-ass for having decorative accessories in his 'bachelor pad', it was his girlfriend Sierra who picked them up to liven up their bland living room; he had no say in it. It was a small comfort Ian didn't knew he needed, at least in this very moment.

The redhead sloshed the amber liquid around, focusing on creating a mini tornado rather than the topic he initially wanted to bring up. "It's nothing."

"Bullshit," Lip chuckled, "You know I know you better than that. You didn’t come here just to shoot shit. What, is it about a guy? Is that why you don't want to tell me? Are you actually falling for one of your playthings finally?"

Ian was quick to do exactly what the pillow was titled for, but Lip was also quick to dodge it with laugh, catching it in his own hands. "Fuck off,” The redhead added for extra measure. It was no secret Ian had stopped taking relationships seriously, having not had successful ones in his past. They were either too old, too closeted, too confused about themselves, too…normal, or not exciting enough. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but none of them held what he needed, so there were always new ones useful for a good fuck. But Lip was one to talk when that was all he did back then on his bender.

Lip let out one last laugh, tossing the pillow back at his brother. "Seriously, though. What is it?"

Ian let out a sigh, scratching his head. How was he supposed to explain this internal dilemma he had? That he got his feelings hurt by a stranger? With a shake of his head, he bit the bullet and explained everything from that first night he went back to check on his then John Doe to their argument. When he finished everything, Lip just stared at him. The expression he held was unreadable and Ian wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. He knew he was being stupid as fuck to be so bothered by this. He shouldn’t have said anything. 

Ian leaned back against the sofa and took another big swig of his beer to distract himself.

“Well, first off,” Lip started, causing Ian to shift his eyes towards his brother in his peripheral rather than fully turning towards him. This was probably the most embarrassing dilemma he ever had to tell Lip. “This guy sounds like a fuckin’ ass.”

Ian coughed out a laugh, tilting his head in agreement. That was definitely not a wrong assumption.

“And two,” He continued, “What the hell are you doing?” 

Now, Ian had to turn to give Lip his full attention; not like he wasn’t doing so before. That was not a reply he was expecting to get in return. “What do you mean?”

“You know he’s not a stray dog, right?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Why would I think he was a dog?”

“You did this so many times when you were a kid. You tried to take in every stray pup you saw outside and feed them and care for them.”

Ian remembered all those times very well. Fiona would never let him take home any of them because, one, there were already too many mouths in the house for a ten-year-old to take care of and, two, they could have been carrying all kind of diseases. When Ian was outside with the rest of the kids Lip would always hold him back by the request of their older sister.

But this was different. Very different.

“You couldn’t help it then and I guess you can’t help it now. Now that you’re old enough, you finally have that chance.”

“Oh, shut up. That is nothing like that.”

Lip snorted in reply. “You sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure, Lip.” Ian rolled his eyes for who knows what the number was this time through this conversation and punched his brother in the arm. “I told you this to get your advice; not to get judged for my life choices.”

Lip held his hands up in defense. “You know I’m the last person to judge. I’m just sayin’. But if you’re asking if you should go back…” He paused, collecting all the information he had to make a decision. “Because he’s being an unappreciative ass, I _would_ say leave him the fuck alone. But I mean, I kinda did the same thing with Youens. It's not the exact same situation, similar enough that I thought his help was unnecessary, that I wasn't his charity case, for months and I hit rockbottom. He was still there—he didn't give up on me and I got better. It took a while, but it did. So, I _guess_ because of that...I wouldn't give up on this guy either... I guess I'm on a redemption kick or whatever," He added with a shrug, leaning back into the couch as well. "Even though everything in me wants to tell you don't fucking do it because you don't know who this person even is, so you shouldn't even give two shits about him...”

Ian nodded, knowing he had a point. It's what he'd been going back and forth about for the past two days. Mei’s reaction several days back told him that as well, but he just couldn't pull away and he wasn't exactly sure why. 

Maybe Blue was that puppy he never got, as fucked up as that sounded, but that didn't sit right with him. That wasn't all Blue was to him...

* * *

This was starting to get really fucking annoying. Every time the door opened, Blue expected the now way-too familiar redhead to walk in with his gelled-back red hair that was usually falling out of place by the time he reached the hospital; his dumb, goofy grin; and his lazy swag, bringing in the faint scent of cologne mixed with his natural musk from what he assumed was due to the heavy lifting of patients. But only his ever-rotating nurses and doctors appeared behind the closed doors, which seemed to press on his nerves more and more with every body that strolled in. It was like his senses were on high alert, endorphins coursing through his veins continuously at the slightest sound, and the nurses could tell every time they checked his pulse. When did Ian become something that was so…normal, almost necessary, in his three weeks of ‘living’? 

He was confused after the first night when Ian didn't show up. Well, he half expected him to, honestly, after their argument, but as he started to understand how persistent of a person Ian was, he assumed he would have come despite that. Then, he started expecting Ian the next morning, thinking for sure he would have come then because he had never been away for more than a day, but by the end of the night he was fully disconcerted. Now, during the day, every opened door, every footstep sounded like Ian's. 

It had only been two days—just _two_ fucking days. Sure, he wasn’t exactly sure what Ian’s schedule was, so he could have been working, pulling doubles, or doing his own thing on a possible day off. Ian wasn’t obligated to stay with him for however long he would be in this hospital; it wasn’t his job. Yet, there was a part of him that felt uneasy by his lack of presence, not having spent a single day not by his side. In the daytime, he was usually kept busy with his feedings and physical therapy, so it wouldn't bother him as much, but when the day wound down just as his activities did, there was no one there to fill that emptiness. 

During the full nights that had passed, he was awake for different reasons now, left on his own and his thoughts. He was starting to feel he was a bit harsh on Ian...but he had a right to be, right? Taking over like he was his fucking keeper or something. He was a grown ass man; he didn't need one.

_I'm all you have._

The words rang back so easily, so loudly. If he actually thought about it, Ian was all he had. At some point during his recovery, he started to notice that redhead was the only one not part of medical personnel or government authority that came for him. Moving from the general floor to the physical therapy floor and back, he watched patients walk up and down the hallways with others in regular street clothes, no doubt related to the patient in someway, whether they be a significant other or parent or sibling. Yet, here he was with the person who found him on the street, who had been enough company.

Where were his own parents, brother, sister—fuck, even cousins? Did he have any of that? If no one else came by in worry or wonderment in the four weeks that he had been away from home, wherever that was, then the answer must have been 'no'. But he couldn't have been a family of just one person. Or they were possibly not in Chicago…

Ian was really all he had… If he had pushed Ian away, he would really have no one. 

But then, if that was the case, who or what brought about that feeling of belonging, of comfort, from that nightmare? That question also plagued him. It felt more like a memory than just a dream; it didn't feel like a first time, but he couldn't pinpoint when that was, why that happened, or who was there. It was a pain that shook him to the core. He could still feel it so vividly - the chills that ran down his spine, the uncertainty of what would happen, but also the certainty of death - all so familiar, and he needed a distraction.

He was starting to realize he was essentially trapped in his own room. Now, he _really_ needed to get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, we need a calm contemplation chapter.  
> I've been staring at this chapter for 4 days straight, trying to change or add something...and changed and added nothing LOL


	11. Hide-and-Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I kept you guys waiting long enough for an update lol But I just wanna say....I APPRECIATE Y'ALL SO MUCH. So many kudos (more than I thought I'd ever get), so many bookmarks, so many hits. *sniffle* TuT It's you guys and your comments that keep me going to be honest. 
> 
> Special thanks to mikhailosbitch for listening to me ramble about my ideas, helping me put this together, and all your feedback!! I always look forward to your IM with your comments haha. Mah homey \\\//m
> 
> SUZYQ717 for reading and commenting since day 1! My ride or die! (I hope xD)
> 
> crazynadine — you've commented on every chapter, I appreciate you!
> 
> Everyone else that has commented, obviouslyyyyy I appreciate you all as well! I hope you guys all stick with me till the end! And without further ado... *does a grand gesture to the beginning of the chapter*

The hospital that had once acted as his second home now felt almost foreign and it took only two days away from it to make that abrupt change when he’d spent many days bringing patients there and many weeks with Blue. In the last four weeks, he was barely in his apartment up until those two days—when he was it was to sleep and shower—and he didn’t know what to do with himself. The talk with Lip the day before did nothing for his conscience except feed into this…obsession as Lip had so graciously called it, or whatever this, was he had with Blue. 

But here he was. In front of room 1026. He hadn’t exactly planned what he would say because he had a feeling Blue would still be pissed at him—he didn’t really seem like a forgiving person. However, Ian sure as hell refused to apologize because he did nothing wrong. At least that he was sure of. 

With a release of air, he pushed the door open, throwing caution to the wind to see how this would play out. He’d just try to avoid another negative confrontation.

Except he couldn’t have any type of confrontation. The bed was unmade and empty and the wheelchair that usually sat next to Blue’s bed was gone. Ian glanced down at his watch, hoping it would provide him with any answers, but it didn’t. Blue’s physical therapy session was long over at this point, which was the reason why Ian had come at this time. He didn’t think Blue had any scheduled doctor’s appointments that he would need to leave his room for. So, why wasn’t he there?

Ian left the room and headed back to the nurse’s station.

“Excuse me,” He leaned against the counter, announcing his presence to the nurse on the computer, “The patient in room 1026, does he have something scheduled right now?”

“What’s their name?” 

“Bl—Uhm…He’s a John Doe.” She must have been new to the floor, Ian supposed. The nurses usually on the floor knew exactly who was in room 1026 since he was the talk of the town for the first couple weeks that he was admitted. If she didn’t know who was in there, she certainly wouldn’t have known him be ‘F-U John Doe’, and she definitely wouldn’t have known him by ‘Blue’. 

The nurse hummed, focusing on the computer as she scrolled and tapped away. “No, doesn’t look like he had anything scheduled. I was in there an hour ago to do an assessment on him; he was fine.” That was enough to start a panic in Ian’s head. She then looked up at him, curiously, “Why do you ask?”

Ian was quiet for a quick moment, trying to wrap his head around this. “…He’s not in his room…”

Apparently, this was a difficult concept to grasp for the nurse. “What do you mean he’s not in his room? He can’t really go anywhere.” _No fucking shit._

“Yeah…I know,” He replied, tone leveled and unimpressed. His fingers curled into the counter before him. “Yet, he’s not in there.” How the _fuck_ do you lose a patient who can barely stand on his own two feet, with assistance?

The nurse stood up, finally understanding the gravity of this situation and he had to hold himself back from rolling his eyes in her face. He followed her back to the room just to repeat what he had literally just told her, not even five minutes, and then did he allowed himself to do so.

“That’s what I said...”

“Where could he have gone?” She asked, walking into the room.

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out an aggravated sigh, before turning to a different direction, leaving the nurse to do whatever the fuck she was going to do. If Blue left the room at least an hour ago, he couldn’t have gone very far. Apparently, he was the master of stealth if no one else found a guy rolling down the hallway, in a wheelchair, by himself peculiar. 

Wait.

Ian’s heart rate picked up as all types of scenarios played out in his head. He knew they were ridiculous, but the longer he couldn’t find him, the more radical his mind became. Someone could have taken him out of the hospital, like whoever was part of that drug deal that Blue could've been a part of. A family member? Well, that might be a stretch at this point, honestly. Did the police come back and take him? That may not be much of a stretch, but that’s basically kidnapping; even they should know better than that.. 

Ian guessed the nurse on the floor had gotten two more nurses to help her look for their missing bed-ridden patient, hearing the chatter from another the floor they were located on. He had a better idea to start asking most people on the floor if they had seen him. The only description he had wasn't much to go off of because a few people were being pushed around on wheelchairs at all hours of the day as it was. It didn't take long to figure out he wasn't on the floor at this point and he hadn't been discharged, according to the hospital system and any of the nurses on the floor too. So, he ventured onto other floors. Unfortunately, the size of this hospital was fucking ridiculous—it was the size of a fucking castle. He tried the cafeteria and it took him a full fifteen minutes to go through the amount of people, nothing. He tried bathrooms, nothing. _What the fuck?_

After about 45 minutes of playing this lone game of scavenger hunt, Ian decided to try the last place he could possibly think of. The glass double doors mechanically slid open as Ian stepped onto the rubber padded floor. The hospital's atrium, their large open courtyard that sat in the center of the entire campus, was the only other place that patients and their guests could venture into with as little restriction as one would get outside, but still regulated by the hospital. There were gardens, paved paths like sidewalks that twisted and turned in different directions, full-grown trees that littered the area in all the right ways; it resembled the outside world for those who couldn’t actually go outside.

An overwhelming wave of relief suddenly rushed over him as he spotted Blue in the farthest corner along the hospital wall in his wheelchair, cornered by a tall bush that stretched down to the other buildings on the same campus. Anyone would have missed him if they weren’t actually looking like Ian had been. The redhead rushed over as soon as he made that recognition.

“Blue, what the hell?!” He exclaimed, but then stopped short when he noticed what he was doing. “Where did you get a cigarette from? Are you even allowed to smoke?”

Blue shrugged. “Dunno. But I bummed it off one of the security guards,” He answered simply, nodding over to said security guard by the entranceway. Ian watched Blue take the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply, and his fingers itched for a pass. Blue didn’t seem as shocked by Ian’s presence as Ian thought he would have been. "Surprised to see you here though," he added, looking up at Ian. It was said barely an ounce of curiosity or emotion behind it and seemed to contradict the meaning behind that sentiment so much that Ian wasn’t sure what exactly to say to that.

Instead, he walked to the other side of the wheelchair and sat on the flat rock. The coolness of his makeshift seat seeped through his pants, causing a chill to run down his spine from the added temperature. He held out a hand to Blue, who looked down at it for a moment. He seemed to get the meaning of the gesture and handed Ian the cigarette. Ian inhaled deeply and took an even longer drag himself as he felt Blue eyes on him, allowing the familiar taste nicotine to sit in his throat. It seemed to do wonders against the anxiety he felt. He blew the smoke out between his lips, handing it back to Blue. 

There was a pregnant pause before Ian decided to answer his question, clasping his hands between his legs. “You thought I wasn’t going to come back?” 

Blue shrugged again as he placed the cigarette between his lips. “Seems like people’ve done that to me already.” Ian tilted his head in confusion and asked for clarification, but Blue shook his head and said nothing more, only pressing into Ian’s curiosity further.

It was silent again as the two passed the cigarette back and forth until it burned down to the filtration zone. Ian tossed it to the ground, putting it out with the heel of his boots before he spoke. “Who brought you down here anyway?”

“No one.”

“What? How’d you get down here then?”

Blue looked at him with an odd expression as if this was the most redundant question ever asked. “I’m sitting in it.”

Ian rolled his eyes in response. “Okay, but how did you get in it and get past your nurse and all the other nurses on the floor?”

“Getting in and out of the wheelchair isn’t that difficult anymore. I’ve been doing it the past few nights…” He slowed his speech, seeing the look of realization and excitement quickly growing on Ian’s face, and put his hands up, “’Ey, calm down, I still can’t stay standing very long; don’t get your fuckin’ panties in a twist.”

“So the fuck what?” Ian was elated at the little achievement that he couldn’t help springing up and hugging Blue from the side, ignoring the fact that he probably wasn’t supposed to do that on his own. “I’m glad the therapy is helping!”

“Get—” Blue struggled in Ian’s grasp, trying to push him away, and slipped his arms under Ian’s, harshly untangling the redhead from him. “Get the fuck off me.” He had his hands out between him and Ian in a martial arts-like guarding pose. It was comical. Ian wasn’t put off by this action in the slightest just based on the unnecessarily wide grin he was serving Blue and the latter rolled his eyes, shrugging his gown back in its previously neat order. “I said it wasn’t a big deal,” He muttered.

“The hell it isn’t,” Ian laughed, back in his rock-seat. “I was freaked the fuck out when you weren’t in your room. I was worried someone kidnapped you or something.”

Blue raised a brow. If Ian looked really hard, he could see the tiniest of smiles threatening to pull at Blue’s lips. “I think I’m a little too old for that.”

“Still. I still don’t know how you made it down here without anyone stopping you.”

Blue shrugged. “I’m convincing, I guess. I couldn’t keep sitting in that room, staring at the same walls, same TV…” He shook his head, “I needed to get out of there.”

Ian nodded, understanding, and just watched Blue look at his arms before running his hands over them as he continued to look at the surroundings in front of him. He must have been freezing coming out here in nothing but a gown and Ian was more than positive there was nothing under it since he used to bath him every day. “Hey, we should get you back up though. It’s cold out here and there’s at least three nurses upstairs looking for you.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Blue replied, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in the wheelchair. Somehow it only made his goosebumps more visible.

“How long have you been out here?”

“I dunno. Maybe 45 minutes. Don’t really have a watch, remember?” He emphasized his point by holding up his forearms and shaking his wrists before folding them again. Ian pursed his lips and shrugged off his own coat, holding it out to Blue, who noticed it in his peripheral and glanced down at it. He looked up at Ian. 

“Said I’m fine.”

“If you don’t take this damn coat I’m gonna drag you back upstairs myself.”

Blue rolled his eyes with a sigh, having no choice but to settle for the first option. He took the large coat from Ian and slipped it on, not bothering to zip it, just holding one flap over the other. Ian was a good six feet in stature and the coat was pretty big on him as it was, the hem of the sleeves just reaching the second knuckles of his fingers. Although Blue seemed to fill it out a little better than Ian did in terms of width, it still flooded in the sleeves. It was actually kind of cute. 

Shockingly, Blue had neither put up as much of a fight Ian expected him to nor did they end up bringing up the sleeping pill issue for the 30 additional minutes that they were out in the courtyard. Was he in a better mood since he’d been free of Ian for the last two days and a half? The thought actually caused a little twist in Ian’s chest, but it was short-lived when Blue’s nurse was seen talking to the security guard at the door before he pointed in the direction of the two and the nurse walked up to them as quickly as Ian had an hour ago.

“Oh my God, we were looking all over for you!”

“Well, y’found me,” Blue replied, looking up at her unfazed. He probably figured someone was going to find him eventually, though they took much longer than Ian.

“Why are you out here? Did you bring him out here?” She looked directly at Ian with narrowed eyes. 

“No…” Ian was almost offended. He was the one that began this search in the first place although he did nothing to rush Blue back to the room when he did find him. “I found him here.”

“We need to get you back upstairs,” She stated as if she didn’t hear a word he said, trailing to the back of the wheelchair to unlock the wheels. She must have been brand new to the floor, a realization that prompted Ian to roll his eyes.

“’Ey—” Blue stuck out his hand between her and the wheelchair, “I’ll go back upstairs when I feel like going back.”

“But we—”

“When is my next assessment from you?” He asked with no remorse in cutting her off. 

“In an hour…”

“Okay, then I’ll see you a fuckin’ hour.”

Ian held back his laugh, just watching Blue manhandle this conversation. The nurse was pretty speechless. Yeah, she was definitely new, for sure, if she didn't know how to handle the different types of patients, Blue being unique—politely yet painfully aggressive as they come. Ian was used to getting that attitude firsthand from him; it was just as amusing watching it unfold on someone else.

"I'll take him back when he's ready to go," Ian spoke, trying to ease the tension and save the poor girl. "I'll make sure he's up there long before it's time."

The nurse eyed the two for a moment. The hesitance was strong on this one, not sure if she would get in trouble for this or not, but she eventually decided to walk back into the hospital. She couldn't really force him to go back inside when he was fully conscious and aware and it didn't seem like she wanted to start a confrontation with him. Even if somewhat stuck in a wheelchair, he seemed like a tough motherfucker as intimidating as Ian assumed he would be upright.

Blue pulled his gaze from the doors that the nurse just disappeared behind to face Ian, whose line of vision was just in the same direction. "I'm going to head back now." 

“Didn't you just tell her you didn't want to go up yet?”

“Yeah, but, like I told her, I'll go back when I feel like it; don't need anyone tellin’ me what to do.” He huffed before pushing on the wheels. 

Ian followed behind him and grasped the handles of the wheelchair, taking over for Blue. “I got it.”

Blue turned his head and shot a glare at Ian. “I got it,” He replied, sternly.

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride, tough guy,” Ian chuckled and continued pushing him through the hospital doors, thankful for that because he had started to shiver for anyone to notice, but he’d stay outside for as long as Blue wanted. Blue didn’t say anything more when Ian didn’t budge. He was uncharacteristically docile. Well—docile for him, anyway. 

Ian definitely couldn’t say that Blue ever formed a conversation or carried it very well to be a polite, upstanding citizen who was happily accepting of other people’s company, but Ian could literally feel the wall built around him. “Hey, you alright?” 

There was a beat of silence before Blue spoke. “I’m fine.”

It did nothing to satiate that unnerving curiosity and uneasiness Ian felt with Blue’s change of demeanor. “…You’re unusually quiet. You still pissed at me for the sleeping pill thing?”

“Yes, I’m still pissed at you for that,” He spat, wasting no time to let him know that unlike the first answer. For some reason, that didn’t seem like that was all it was, but Ian let it go momentarily since he wasn’t sure how exactly to breach the unknown topic.

As they strolled and rolled through the halls, Ian couldn’t help but notice that no one paid any mind to them. The nurse must have not put a hospital-wide alert that they were missing a patient, so she didn’t want to get in trouble and tried to handle it as discreetly as possible. Also, Blue wasn’t the only one being pushed around in a wheelchair; it was a common sight.

“Hey…” Ian started as a thought crossed his mind, “What did you mean by what you said earlier, that it seemed like people had left you already? Did you remember something?”

Blue did it again. It was starting to become apparent that Blue didn’t really like talking about himself, didn’t particularly like feeling vulnerable or weak, and if he was prompted to do so, he wouldn’t block himself off. So, Ian understood that, yes, he did actually remember something. 

“Blue, you gotta let me in; you can’t recover on your own.” Apparently, that wasn’t enough. “Look, I’m sorry for leaving you alone the past couple days… I won’t walk away again, I promise—at least, not without telling you.”

“I don’t care what you do; I’m not your keeper,” Ian heard him mutter. “You can do whatever the fuck you want.”

Ian sighed, pressing the button in the elevator to take them to their designated floor. “Okay, I get it, you don’t trust me. Honestly, I wouldn’t either if I were in your shoes; we know little about each other—well, I know little about you and you know a decent amount about me, so if there’s anyone with the upper hand here, it’s you. You could be a serial killer for all I know, but I’m still here. I meant what I said when I told you I actually care about you and your wellbeing. I’m not going anywhere until you’re back where you need to be and then you can decide if you want to part ways or not, okay?”

“Whatever,” Blue muttered as other people entered the small space, causing the two males to be pushed to the back corner. 

Neither one continued the conversation as the elevator rose for obvious reasons and not even when they had gotten off and reached their room until Ian instinctively started helping Blue back into bed. He, of course, made sure to let Blue do most of the work. 

“The memory I had wasn't really clear or whatever…” Blue started, pulling the covers up to his chest and taking in every stitch, every count of thread, which probably as't much because hospital blankets weren't that great. Ian could hear the hesitation in the other’s voice and there was a hint of that same vulnerability Ian noticed from him when the police first came. “I couldn't see any faces. Couldn't really understand any voices except mine... All I know is I was under train tracks with someone and it felt…nice and then it didn't. I…I was getting…pummeled into the fuckin’ ground…like I did something wrong, like I was being punished…and I don't know why.” His expression was twisted into something that wasn't just one emotion and Ian fought against the strong urge to hold him. 

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…_

Blue’s voice, troubled and pained, rang back in his head. Whoever was “punishing him” caused that? “By that person that made the memory feel ‘nice’?”

Blue shook his head, still focused on the blanket before him. “No, by someone else. That person had run away, I guess.”

It now made sense to Ian why Mickey was acting oddly. At his worst moment, someone close to him has left him stranded and Ian had done the same thing just recently. He was trying to guard himself from it happening again, more than he already seemed to be. The guilt ate at Ian, down to his core, and he had no idea what to say or do except apologize. Again.

“It's whatever.” Blue shrugged. 

Ian sighed inwardly. It felt like Blue had built more walls around him again, at least towards Ian having seemed to be the only one Blue had opened up to. It didn't seem high enough to completely block him out, however, since Blue did open up to him about the memory. It wasn't the best first one to have, so the part of Ian that wasn't weighed down by guilt was elated at the act--he wasn't completely shut out yet.


	12. Welcome Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been like two weeks, I'm sorry! At least I'm making it up to you in length. Hope you enjoy!

“Jesus, were you a card shark or something? Like, what the hell?" Ian questioned, staring at the stacks of chips on Blue's side of the hospital bed table compared to the handful of chips he had, only equating to $200 worth. It was a damn good thing they weren't actually playing for money or else he would've been fucked for sure.

"Or you just really suck at this game..." Blue replied, eyes focused on the cards in his hands. His expression was bare and empty as it had been for the entirety of this game of Poker. It seemed to be the default expression he had if not pissed or some form of disapproval even outside of the current game.

Blue rounded all his chips and slid them to the center of the table, looking at Ian with the same expression. “All in.”

Ian about crumbled in defeat when he looked up at Blue in shock then back at his own hand, holding nothing useful but a pair of 6’s. The redhead sighed, putting down his cards. “Fuck it. I fold.”

A wide childish grin stretched over his lips as he circled his arms around the chips and took them for himself. His tongue slyly stuck out between his teeth and Ian couldn’t even describe the emotion he felt just then. For as long as he’d known Blue in the last two months, there hadn’t really been a smile from him, not even the day he was able to walk without a walker or human assistance for more than 30 minutes. He could count the number of smirks and chuckles on one hand, but a genuine smile was none of them.

That was until now.

And it was for something as small as a game that held no stakes, no rewards, no meaning. He just seemed to have had fun. Well, as much fun as you can have stuck in a hospital. But, at that moment, Ian knew he wanted to see that smile a lot more than that one time.

“Next time, we actually play for something real,” Mickey said, finally looking up Ian with that same smile and Ian could have sworn his heart stopped for a second. In a way, he caused that smile—a smile from one who didn’t seem like there was anything in the world that could produce even an ounce of happiness. And it came from a gambling game.

Ian chuckled, shaking his head. “Like more of those smiles? Because I’d definitely play for that.” His eyebrow quirked upwards in an enticing manner, a coy smile stretching over his lips when he could see the question threw Blue off. Blue’s smile slowly crumbled, betraying Ian’s previous observation. 

“The hell are you on about…” He muttered, sitting back in his bed and avoiding Ian’s gaze. 

_Oh my God…_

“Oh my God,” Ian huffed out an undoubtedly pleased laugh, “Are you blushing right now?”

“You better shut that the fuck down right now, Carrot Top,” warned Blue with the most non-threatening look (in Ian's opinion) on his face and narrowed his eyes when Ian laughed more heartily, “I ain't doing shit.”

“You are!”

“Ian, if you don't shut the fuck up right now.”

“What? You're going to run me over with your wheelchair?” Ian teased and stood up from his seat, cowering behind it even though he knew it would take a couple minutes before Blue could get out of bed, which would've given Ian enough of a head start. The redhead's eyes widened and he ducked deep just in time when he saw the hospital-issued pillow chucked towards him. “HA!” He picked the pillow from the floor and threw it back at Blue, who was already in the midst of returning the gesture and it got Ian right in the face. 

Blue reciprocated with the same bark of laughter and that only began an ongoing game of a pillow fight until the nurse came into the room, announcing her presence with a clear of her throat. The two ceased movement, limbs tangled up with each other—Blue having Ian captured under his arms in a chokehold as Ian tried to smother him with his pillow. It took them a moment of the nurse standing there before they let go of each other and Ian ran his fingers through the now disheveled mess on his head. 

“Is it time for his medication already?” Ian asked, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet.

The nurse walked into the room closing the door behind her. Every time a nurse came into the room, it wasn't as if they walked into with the most chipper attitude in the world or the wisest smile, so Ian could never tell if there was news or not or if they were just making their rounds (he usually assumed the latter). With the nurse’s shake of her head, however, this was a moment of news. To Ian, the air that was lighter and whimsical just moments ago turned thick and a sense of dread hung over him.

“Is something wrong?”

She stopped right at the foot of the bed. “Depends on how you look at it, I guess.” Ian tilted his head, not understanding, which prompted her to continue. “With the amount of progress Blue is making now, the doctor is going to move him to outpatient rehabilitation care.”

“Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?” Asked Ian.

The nurse nodded, “It would be, yeah, but because he'd be an 'outpatient', we don't have anywhere to release him to. A home, relatives, nothing. I mean, there are homeless shelters we could find, if anything, but it's hard to guarantee that long term..." 

As the nurse continued listing places Blue could go, Ian started to wonder why he hadn't thought about this possible (but very real) outcome before. Honestly, he had expected Blue's memory to be fully intact by now, a little over two months later, so that he could actually go back to wherever he came from, though there was a big part of Ian that wanted the opposite. Although Blue may think differently, Ian actually enjoyed his company. 

As "exciting" and "spontaneous" as it may have seemed to everyone else, the life he was living before Blue had occupied most of his thoughts and actions was less so to him. It felt empty. Nothing had been giving him that spark anymore. Ian wasn’t completely unaware of his decent position in life now, having grown up pretty poor, with little to absolutely no parental guidance, and in a just as shitty neighborhood. How many people in the Southside could say they moved out on their own at 22 with a salaried position and benefits? He managed to do it quicker than Fiona did. Yet, it felt like a stale victory. It could have been because he rented it on one of his manic whims when he got his first salary increase and an apartment lease was not something you could easily go back on if he really wanted to go back home.

Ever since he moved out and the Gallaghers grew up, and they each started doing their own thing, that 'unit' they had where one person's problems became everyone else's was no longer there. He actually missed that—the overcrowded home, the noise, and the fights, playful and not. There was always something to keep him preoccupied, but then there just wasn't. The apartment felt smaller, too quiet; it was starting to get unnerving. So, he had to find other option that would keep him out of the apartment to keep his mind occupied and his unsteady emotions at bay.

Blue soon became the only guy Ian was interested enough in to spend time with and with one glance of those bright blues, he didn't entirely think it through until he spoke forward the idea that would kill two birds with one stone. It seemed the better option—and the only one, honestly.

“…What?” Ian questioned, sharing glances between Blue and nurse. Their expression seemed to mimic each other’s bewilderment, just with different levels of intensity. Everything was intense with Blue. 

“You want to do that?” The nurse asked. It wasn't an unprecedented question because who really takes home a stranger? Well, it's actually pretty common—Ian had done that a number of times himself, but in a completely different context. However, Ian’s already done this much, so why stop now, right? 

“I'm not some charity case, Ian,” Blue added as if reminding Ian of a fact that had never once crossed the redhead’s mind (a pup, maybe, but not a charity case) and the latter turned to face him. He kept steady eyes locked on Blue's, unfaltering, making sure Blue got this through his thick skull. 

“I never said you were a charity case, but where else do you really have to go? Yeah, you seem like a tough fucker who could handle himself on the streets in any other case, but, right now, you're not at a hundred percent and we're in the Southside. I don't want a bunch of assholes jumping you or something on your way to rehab or you to freeze to death outside from Chicago's weather." Blue said not a word in reply—didn't even try to argue it—so Ian continued just to drive his point further in. "And, I did tell you I'd be by your side until you get back to where you need to be, so I am telling you you can live with me until we get there. Besides, I wouldn't mind a roommate, anyway."

The room stood silent, both his guardian and his nurse awaiting Blue's final answer. The brunet finally broke the gaze and settled on the darkness of the night sky across the room, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. "Whatever."

"... _'Oh, Ian, you're so thoughtful; I really fuckin' appreciate it'_ ," Ian spoke, doing a debatable imitation of Blue's voice, which prompted Blue to turn back to the redhead with narrowed eyes, and Ian continued with his normal tone and a coy smile on his lips, "You're welcome, Blue. You are too kind."

Blue flipped Ian off. "I don't fuckin' sound anything like that."

"You're right. Since when have kind words left your mouth?" Ian sniggered, turning back to the nurse. "He's going to stay with me. How long do we have in the hospital, then?"

"I pushed for 3 days; once the set-up for the new physical therapist is complete. It was the most they would agree on."

Ian nodded and the nurse excused herself to get his paperwork started and details ironed out. When they were the only ones left in the room, Ian sat in his unofficially designated spot and neither of them spoke again, the playful atmosphere having long dissipated. Blue looked deep in thought, still focused on the window. "You alright?"

Blue continued his silence for a few beats, before facing Ian again. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know," The redhead nodded, settling back into his seat, "But it's not about me having to. I wanted to. I don't know when you’re going to get that I’m not going to leave you on your own.” 

Silence filled the room and the words hung heavily between the two. Too many times did Ian sound so…confident, so adamant, and it wasn’t much of a shock to Ian since he had long accepted this fact, but that didn't seem the case for Blue. Ian kind of understood why, but not to the extent that Blue’s nightmare may have alluded to. It was pointless to bring that up again, everything in Ian wanting to ask more—know more, understand the reasoning behind this infatuation he seemed to have for this man (he refused to continue calling it an ‘obsession’; it was an odd term that didn't exactly fit what he felt), but he knew he wouldn't get answers if Blue didn't remember anything. They needed time and time was exactly what they had.

* * *

The next few days flew right by just as the last two months did, if not more so. 

When the nurse told Blue they were basically kicking him out of the hospital—a well guarded, highly regulated environment where almost every action of his was delegated to him—his mind started reeling. He didn’t know how he was going to live on his own, barely able to walk, having no money to his non-existent name, no home or shelter. Fucking hospital regulations…

Blue's mind became preoccupied with the fact that Ian told him he could stay with him until he could go home. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that either. Yes, there was a part of him that was relieved at the fact that he wouldn't have to worry about those previous concerns, but he didn’t want to owe him anything. Now he would be sharing the same air, eating the same food, sleeping in the same room as Ian. It probably shouldn't be any different than it was while he was in the hospital because they did the exact same thing there, but at the same time, it definitely would be. He would be completely alone with him, living with Ian. Something about it prompted an odd feeling in his gut.

That was most likely why he'd been quieter than usual on his last day at the hospital and on the drive back to Ian's place.

"Hey, you alright?" The gentle touch on his knee startled him back to the present more so than Ian's voice. Ian quickly apologized, removing his hand from Blue's knee in half the second it took his knee to jerk in the opposite direction. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." Blue pulled his gaze up to Ian's for a second before looking back out his window, trying to ignore the residual tingle he felt where Ian's hand had lain. His fingers scratched at the gray fabric of the sweatpants Ian had given him earlier in the day among the t-shirt, hoodie, and boots (casual ones that looked odd with the rest of his outfit; Ian didn’t have extra winter boots laying around). The fittings were very off. Because Ian had about three inches on Blue, the sweatpants were flooding in both the length as well as width. Ian evidently liked to wear his sweatpants loose and his shirts fitted. The broadness of Ian's chest, he had taken notice one day, seemed to match his own now based off of the fit of his shirt and hoodie, but Ian was much smaller in the stomach compared to the small gut Blue had even though he hadn't started eating "big" meals until recently. It was very evident Ian worked out a lot and Blue had barely touched a single weight in his supposed 20-something years of life. Yet, despite these differences, they somehow wore the same shoe size.

"Little weird for you to be moving in, huh?"

Blue shrugged, "A little.” It was an understatement, but that was all he was going to let on.

No other words were spoken and Blue just focused on the moving scenery around him. It was all so new. He hadn't gone anywhere off hospital grounds, so that was literally his entire world right there—nothing else had existed. Must have been how Christopher Columbus felt. Although they had only gone a couple miles past Cook County Hospital, it was as if he had ventured into a whole other country—buildings he hadn’t seen before, streets he’d never heard of (as far as his memories went anyway), people he'd never met.

"Oh, we're coming up to the place where I found you." Blue made eye contact with Ian for a second before the latter pointed in a certain direction. "Right there; in that Mobil gas station parking lot." 

Blue followed his finger to the stated direction and there was the parking lot he spoke of. Nothing seemed off about it, people walked by like nothing happened, and they probably knew nothing of the incident. Blue fell into that pool of people. He had no recollection of this event, couldn't tell you the time of day he was supposedly there or why he was even there in the first place. As Blue’s eyes stayed on the lot, he gently rubbed at the surgical site when he felt a dull pain that had subsided completely just weeks ago. 

Suddenly, the air started getting thick around him; he couldn't get enough into his lungs no matter how deeply he breathed or how quickly his chest was rising and falling. He couldn’t get the right coordination either. His heart felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest and he could feel each pulse in every extremity, all the way down to his toes. His head felt foggy, heavy with thick pressure. He wasn't sure he could think straight as the clear outlines of the buildings in front of him melted into the trees, ground, and sky and soon he couldn't tell up from down. There was a constant rush in his ears—everything was muffled, the crisp quality of the radio was now only garbled noise like someone had dunked the entire car and him underwater, the hum of the car like white noise.

“...ue!…eathe!..” Ian voice was barely audible, taken over by the buzzing in his ears. There was a warmness in his hand and before his vision could completely turn white, outlines started forming shapes again, color slowly regained its vibrancy, Ian’s voice was comprehensible again. 

"W-What—" Blue found those green eyes again and looked around himself to regain his place. That's when he realized they had stopped moving and Ian's face was painted with worry, fingers wrapped tightly around his, a feeling he was certain of, something real. That, he didn't pull away from. The sense of impending doom and finality was wearing away as his lungs completely filled with each breath now, the white noise gone and replaced by the zoom of cars driving by. 

"You were having a panic attack..."

"A panic attack? Fuck..." Blue let go of Ian's hand and ran them over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned over his knees. His elbows digging into his flesh let him know he was still in the present and helped him breathe easier. He was usually asleep when he felt something intense like that, but this was worse. Being awake, he guessed, amplified it to another level. 

Fuck. Sleeping didn't seem so bad anymore...

"Did the memory of the incident come through or something?"

He shook his head, rubbing his eyes. "No... I think I felt that moment or somethin'... I dunno..." 

It was silent for a moment before he felt a squeeze of his shoulder causing him to look up at Ian, who only put the car back in drive. "Let's get home."

Home.

His "home" for who knows how long.

* * *

Ian couldn't explain how he felt just then. The panic Blue was going through transferred into Ian just watching him. He didn't know what to do. What more could he have done? The only thing that made sense was to help guide Blue back to the present with touch and voice as he had done when Blue was having that nightmare, which now didn't seem that long ago even though it happened a month and a half ago. 

Since they had gotten into the car from the hospital, Blue had been silent and Ian thought that's just how it was going to be and thought nothing of it, but after this, he couldn't help but glance over every five minutes until he had reached his apartment building.

“We’re here.”

Blue lifted his head from the glass and looked out the window again at his surroundings before opening the door and stepping out. Ian grabbed the plastic bag of Blue’s old clothes from the backseat and followed suit, locking the doors behind them. He hurried to Blue’s side as the latter was leaning against he car, tugging at the folded wheelchair, trying to get it out himself. Blue had refused walking in public with the walker he was given at discharge, so he argued for the wheelchair.

“I got it,” Blue insisted, finally pulling the wheelchair out. He pulled the sides apart, setting it up, and then sat down in it.

“That one,” Ian pointed to the tan bricked, ten-story building in front of them and he looked down at the hand Blue then held out. After having passed along the bag of clothes to him, Blue wheeled himself over to the entrance and waited. This was not a wheelchair friendly apartment building apparently; there was no button for the door to open automatically.

Ian held the door open for Blue, who wordlessly rolled through the threshold to the locked inner entrance. The small lobby was nothing spectacular besides smelling heavily of cigarettes and hints of weed. It was all empty space, the black and white tiled flooring cracked in some places accenting sky blue colored walls, which Ian thought was probably the tackiest thing he'd ever seen in his entire 23-year-old life, but who was he to complain about decor choice?

They took the elevator up to the sixth floor, Blue continuing to trail behind Ian until they reached the studio apartment. Ian unlocked the door and pushed Blue through the threshold after a couple failed attempts by him himself since there was an inch height difference in his apartment from the corridor.

The apartment wasn’t much to look at in Ian’s opinion as the entire place was bathed in a soft yellow light. It was pretty small. You could see the entire apartment suite just standing by the door. As soon as Blue entered, he passed the kitchen on his left that was separated from the living room by a half wall, which was only about four cabinets long. The walls of that room were a striking lemonade yellow with oak cabinets causing the white stove and refrigerator to stand out against its surroundings. The flooring was a beige patterned linoleum that felt sticky against Ian’s feet no matter what he did or how much he cleaned; it just was.

Just after the kitchen, on the right was the door to the bathroom. Nothing special about that either. The room was just a bit longer than the bathtub along the wall and the width of the bathtub, toilet, and sink. The rest of the cream colored carpet flooring outside of it led into the living room, shared with his bedroom, the width of the room being the kitchen and the entrance way of the front door. Across from where they stood was his small square dining table and then his neatly made bed (the foot of the bed facing them), his black couch, which was as comfortable as a thin futon, sat along the wall to the left of the bed, right under the long expansion of the window. 

“Nice place,” Blue muttered his courtesies, sitting just outside of the bathroom door after Ian had told him where everything was located.

“It’s not much, but it's home,” Ian lamented, shutting the door behind him. He toed off his sneakers and put them in the coat closet to the right of him, across the kitchen entrance. After he hung up his coat, he turned around and jumped, finding Blue right next to him, holding the boots in his lap. He was curling and uncurling his toes against the carpeted flooring. Ian took the boots from him, placing it where it had initially been taken from this morning.

Blue wheeled into the main room and parked beside the couch. 

“Uhm, you hungry or anything?” Ian asked, watching Blue get out of the wheelchair. He grabbed onto the arm, guiding himself onto the couch with a flop. The springs cried out and suddenly, Ian was just a bit embarrassed by the crapy quality. The couch most likely was no more comfortable than the hospital bed, but at least it wasn't the hospital and it seemed like Blue was quite alright with that. 

"I could eat," He shrugged, "What d'you got?"

Ian hummed in thought, walking over to the fridge, peering inside. "I didn't buy anything extra because I didn't know what you liked to eat. I could bake chicken...I've got broccoli as a side... There's leftover tacos from yesterday..." He stood up and looked into the fridge, "Uhm...I could heat up pizza... I've got chicken nuggets..." He shut the freezer and turned around, leaning over the counter. "Or we could order out if you want."

Leaning into the couch, Blue rolled his head to the side to face Ian from where he sat. "Don't matter to me. Anything's better than fuckin' hospital food."

Ian chuckled and pushed himself off the counter, "You're right about that. I'll heat up chicken nuggets since it's late already. No eating big meals before bed." He turned the knob on the stove to preheat.

"Who said that shit?"

"Uh, every physical trainer ever?" Ian replied in a sarcastic tone as he pulled the previously opened box out of the freezer, pouring the contents onto the baking sheet with loud clangs.

“What, you’re a physical trainer too?”

“Nah, I just work out a lot.”

“Looks like it.”

Slipping the baking sheet into the oven, Ian started the timer before going back into the fridge. “You want something to drink? I have water, lemonade, a green smoothie, beer,” He added with a chuckle.

“I’ll definitely take the beer.”

Ian turned to Blue, who only stared back at him, steadily. “I was kidding…”

“I wasn’t.”

“I’m not giving you beer when you just got out of the hospital, Blue.”

“It's not like I went in for a liver transplant or some shit.”

“You might as well have,” Ian rolled his eyes and pulled out a bottle of water from the fridge, tossing it in Blue’s direction. Luckily, it was caught before it could hit the ground. “You're drinking water today.”

Blue rolled his eyes as well, but twisted the cap off and took a swig anyway. “Buzzkill.”

“Can't kill it if you don't have a buzz yet,” Ian grinned, teasingly.

“Fuck you.”

“You're welcome~”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Blue's "home", we can pick this up~  
> Make me happy and leave comments and kudos if you like this story!  
> I appreciate y'all for sticking around! <3


	13. Brand New Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I broke this chapter into two because no one has an attention span for 9 pages straight of a word document, haha, but these two chapters are kinda light-hearted; a little change of pace. Enjoy :)

Real TV. Real channels. No more infomercials. Not to mention better movies. Being stuck in that godforsaken hospital for over two months was becoming really bothersome—couldn't do what you wanted, eat what you wanted, go where you wanted, but Blue was sure as fuck going to say what he wanted. They couldn't take that from him either. But he never thought he'd be so…happy, if that's what you want to call it, to be watching real TV, a movie without any type of censorship. He couldn't tell you what movies he actually liked, what moves he'd watched before, what his favorite genre was, but he knew everything they had on the regulated television wasn't him.

The first movie he and Ian watched definitely was. Jason Bourne 2. Blue stumbled upon it on HBO when he turned on the TV; Ian didn’t like it, but he said he’d watch it if it was what Blue wanted. Blue wanted and he loved it. They started in the middle somewhere, but it was okay. They ate the entire box of chicken nuggets before the movie was even over. Blue ate his plain and Ian had his with ranch, which was probably the nastiest fucking mix he had ever seen and he made sure Ian knew that…many times. To the point where Ian shoved a pillow in his face and Blue realized he enjoyed getting under Ian’s skin. It could also have to with the fact that he learned he didn’t like ranch while he was in the hospital.

Once Jason Bourne 2 finished, The Conjuring 2 was next and Blue expressed his confusion and dislike as to why they keep starting movies that weren't even the first fucking one, so Ian told him to find another movie while he ordered pizza. Ian suggested Hawaiian and had to explain what that was. Blue reacted the same way he did with the ranch nuggets, maybe even more so. 

_“I can’t hang out with you anymore,” Ian had said, feigning offense taken._

_“Like I fuckin’ wanted to in the first place?” Blue retorted._

They decided on keeping it simple with pepperoni—you can’t ever go wrong with that…unless you’re a vegetarian. Blue definitely wasn’t. 

He was so engrossed with the TV by the third one Ian had set up, one he actually owned. It was Pirates of the Caribbean, the fourth one according to Ian, who made a vow that they would watch the other three because you apparently can't start and end with the last movie; it was evidently his favorite film series. Blue didn’t give two shits where they started; he was content where he was, but he could see why—some things didn’t make sense to him unless he probably watched the last three. He was entertained by Captain Jack, though, so he was okay with this vow that Ian may or may not keep.

When the credits started rolling around midnight, one and a half boxes of pizza and several water bottles later (Ian still didn’t give in to letting him have a beer, unfortunately), he turned his head to check with Ian what other movie he had in mind to put on next since he had taken over choosing the last two, but, Ian was slumped down, almost like he was sliding off the couch. His head was tilted uncomfortably to the side, leaning over his own shoulder, while his hands loosely circled around the leaning water bottle that was uncapped and sat on his stomach. It rose and fell gently and evenly, which only made it tilt more and more, and Ian wasn’t moving any more than that, so Blue leaned over to check his face, removing the water bottle, and, yup, he was definitely asleep.

And close. Way too close.

He didn’t realize how close he was until his heart started picking up speed. So close that every time Ian exhaled, it tickled Blue’s nose and he could smell the pizza still lingering on his breath. So close that he found Ian really did have long lashes that laid perfectly straight and a little lighter in color than his hair. So close that he learned very soft brown freckles actually littered Ian's face, but were more concentrated around his nose. So close that he could tell Ian’s lips were pinker and fuller in seep than when he was awake and more chipped from the lack of moisture his breaths were sucking up and he could probably paint them perfectly if he actually had a single artistic bone in his body. Actually, Ian would make a pretty damn good model for anyone to draw and/or paint, he couldn't help but think. He was so close that he could see the drool accumulating in the corner of his slightly opened mouth, threatening to fall.

He should have probably been grossed out, but, instead, that only made him chuckle and realize he should wake him up…but Ian looked so peaceful. And, Blue wasn’t too uncomfortable in this position to really move anyway, so it didn’t occur to him to sit back up until Ian’s brows furrowed together a bit not too long after, his eyes fluttering until they opened halfway. It only took a second for Ian to realize there was one other person in his personal bubble, but he didn’t really freak out. Just stared back at him.

“Um…what are you doing…?” Was all he said.

Blue cleared his throat and quickly straightened back up as if he wasn’t too close for comfort only moments ago. “I was just checking if you fell asleep... You did. You should go to bed.”

“You’re sitting on it,” Ian replied, voice a bit raspy, as he rubbed his eyes with his palms. 

“What? Isn’t that your bed right there?” Blue pointed to the bed that sat just to the left of them. Was there something he was missing? That bed wasn’t a figment of his imagination, was it? “I’m not that out of it...”

Ian laughed softly, eyes settling back on Blue. He could definitely see sleep was still weighing Ian down. “Yes, but that's gonna be your bed for a while now. I know hospital beds aren't that comfortable and I wasn't about to buy a whole new bed just for you. Come on, I don't like you that much."

"Fuck you," Blue let out a slight laugh with a roll of his eyes. 

“But, seriously, the beds yours.”

“The couch is fine."

"Blue, I will carry you to the bed if I have to." The look on Ian's face held that challenge he constantly had with Blue. He and Blue, the latter noticed, always went back and forth, neither of them ready to back down from a verbal altercation—at least, not very easily. 

“You wouldn't.”

“You wanna find out?”

He really didn't want to, but, as usual, he wasn't about to let Ian have this. Whatever “this” was. It was stupid, but he already knew the amount of debt he was in for Ian taking him on for even this long, it was pretty much irreconcilable, honestly. He didn't want to owe him any more than he did; he would be fine sleeping on this unnaturally uncomfortable couch. So, he stuck by his defiance. 

But Ian wasn't bluffing. 

It was like the sleep that was taking over him just a few minutes ago was no longer there in the split second it took Blue to answer. Ian immediately grabbed his hand and harshly pulled him over. Just as soon as Blue thought they were going to collide face first, Ian ducked under his armpit, allowing Blue’s top half to slump over without a second to spare.

“Ian!”

He figured the redhead was strong, noticing how his t-shirts fit him, the way his arms bulged in his long sleeves—he'd never seen Ian lift more than his body, but that in itself was a decent feat considering Blue usually leaned against him with the majority of his weight before he could hold his own. However, he'd never actually experienced it firsthand like this and never thought he would. 

Ian had thrown him over his shoulder and somehow stood up with him with ease. What the fuck was this; had he not gained much of his weight back? However he did, he got him up there and Blue was face first with his ass, struggling to get out of his grip. He contemplated for a split second on biting the closest thing on Ian that he could find to throw him off guard and give him the upper hand, which was a butt cheek, but he figured that was a bit too inappropriate—not to mention childish as all hell—so the thought was quickly discarded. Instead, he found a way to trip Ian, not really considering the fact that he could fall face first into the ground if Ian toppled backwards until Ian’s stance faltered. Rather than painfully greeting the cream carpet below them, his back met a cushion-y comfort with a rough bounce into a harder surface of Ian’s chest.

Blue groaned, squirming under him, “What the fuck, Gallagher?”

“Hey, you're the one who decided to fucking trip…me...”

Blue wasn't sure what happened. Ian seemed to forget what he was doing or it didn't cross Blue’s mind to roll from under him or something. He was lost. He got lost. He was drawing blanks when all he could see was an even bed of green this time and everything he took note of earlier was magnified underneath the glow of the moonlight seeping through his window. A rolling sensation grew from the pit of his stomach and metastasized throughout his body, paralyzing him in his place (other than the medical sense), pressed against Ian's own.

This was much different than staring while he was awake. He didn’t know what to do or how much time passed, shifting uncomfortably, until Ian blinked and cleared his throat, rolling off him. 

“You, uh, you need extra covers, or anything?”

Blue shook his head, pulling himself against the wall. 

Ian nodded, eyes jumping from one side of the room to the other and the carpet. “Well, uhm, feel free to wake me up if you—if you need anything. I’m gonna head to bed.” He began walking to couch, but stopped mid-stride, backtracking and making a sharp turn towards the shutter doors along the wall. He pulled out two pillows and a blanket, placing the pillows on the couch, and flicked out the blanket before settling into his new bed for the next few whatever. “Goodnight…”

Blue replied with a shorter, simpler version, resembling more of a grunt than an actual word, but Ian seemed to understand anyway and laid down, facing the back of the couch. He wasn’t certain if Ian had knocked out immediately or at all, but he never moved through the night.

Blue stayed awake for an entirely different reason this time.

* * *

Ian awoke with a crick in his neck and slowly sat up with a groan. “Fuck…” He hadn’t slept on that couch since somewhere in the first month when he moved to his apartment and had gotten bedbugs. He had to throw out his mattress and it had taken him a while to save the money for a new one with all the protections to avoid bed bugs ever again because never did he want to sleep on the couch. Until now, obviously.

He swung his legs over the edge and reached for his cellphone that was playing hardcore, obscene rap music, the type of music that would do a decent job of waking him up and jumpstarting his brain fogged down by sleep every morning. The music wasn’t doing much today. He’d only had three hours of sleep the night before after that whole bed occurrence, unable to fall back asleep immediately. It was a good thing he had taken the day off to help Blue adjust because he didn't think even the rush of EMT duties would keep him awake with his medication in play.

Ian could handle Blue’s face in his personal space, he could also try to lie to himself and say that face wasn’t plastered in his subconscious and appeared in his dream after, but he couldn’t control himself when he landed on top of him. It was an entirely different type of sensation than he had yet to experience with him and it definitely wasn’t one he could follow through with as he usually would do, for very obvious reasons. One, he definitely couldn’t just assume every guy he comes in contact with is gay—although he had a pretty good radar for these things—and, two, even if Blue was, he couldn’t take advantage of a just-released hospital patient under his care. There were lines he could not and should not cross.

So, he spent the next three hours that he was awake fighting between thoughts and images of Blue, puppies dying, and wrinkly, old people who he’d treated on the job. It helped and lulled him to sleep in a way sheep couldn’t. 

It wasn't that he hadn't seen Blue in all his "glory" before, because he definitely had and not even that prompted dreams about him, but this moment was different. Blue was awake, conscious; he was staring back at Ian with the same look in his eyes that seemed to mimic what the latter felt. But, Ian honestly couldn't even be sure about that.

Now, he was just plain tired and in pain as he twisted and tilted his neck to get it back to a decent condition. 

Ian turned to his bed to find Blue underneath the covers, laying on one side of the bed and facing the wall. He couldn’t see Blue’s face since the blanket over his shoulders were covering it, but he didn’t seem to have stirred when the music was went off on Ian’s phone or the current buzzing by the alarm next to him, so he must have been asleep. At least, Blue was actually sleeping though. 

Ian stood and hurried over to shut it off so that he could stay asleep. For who knows how many days he’d been awake, he sure as hell could use it. 

6:10… He could go back to sleep himself, but he should at least get breakfast started rather than eat leftover pizza from the night before— Oh, right. The pizza and shit-ton of water bottles that he didn’t clean up last night... He turned back to the coffee table to find it bare and clean. What? He remembered making a mental note before he went to sleep to clean it up in the morning because he sure as hell wasn’t going to touch it well after midnight—too much effort. But, now there wasn’t anything to clean up. The bottle of ranch and two pizza boxes were gone, he noticed the water bottles were tied up in two plastic bags by the kitchen counter, and all the crumpled and used paper towels had been thrown away too.

“He cleaned all that up on his own?” Ian surmised. Well, at least he could thank him by making breakfast then. 

Ian prepared what he had: coffee, scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. He also made a mental note that he needed more bacon as there were only four strips left, which he decided to give to Blue. He needed it more than Ian did. While Ian placed bread in the toaster as the bacon was frying in the pan, he heard shuffling in the background. Ian had to turn his whole body around, knowing his neck could only comfortably move a quarter of what he usually could, to find Blue getting himself out of bed. 

“Good morning,” Ian spoke, getting back to flipping the bacon.

“Mornin’.” Blue’s voice was a little too clear to have just woken up from sleep. Maybe he was more a graceful sleeper than Ian…although that was the oddest possibility considering the hard-front nature of Blue. He walked over—well, not exactly walked; it was kind of an odd mixture of limping and waddling—over to the kitchen counter, taking a seat on one of the stools. “You’re up early as fuck for having slept after midnight.”

“This is the usual time I wake up,” Ian shrugged, turning the heat off once the pieces of bacon were past pink, but not exactly brown, still limp as he picked them up and placed on Blue’s designated plate. He was always used to Fiona making it a darker brown and crispy and although he liked the crisp, he found he liked it soft and moist. “How’d you sleep?”

Blue shrugged, “Fine.” His usual go-to answer. Ian wasn’t sure how to take that—if he did sleep or not, but he decided to just let it go. Blue was very adamant on that topic every time it was brought up.

“I made breakfast, you hungry?” It was a dumb question since he had already set a plate for him, but whatever. He needed to move on from the topic.

“Sure.”

Ian nodded and then he heard the toaster pop up, quickly turning his head because he also started smelling burning bread. “Ah, d— _fuck…_ ” He hissed, cradling his neck. He had forgotten about that whole crick in his neck problem, which was much worse than burning his toast…

“The hell happened to you?”

Ian took the two steps needed to get to the toaster, rotating his neck slowly and keeping his hand on the nape as if to keep his head from falling off should he bend it the wrong way. “The couch isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world to sleep on…”

“Oh.”

“So…” Ian turned around holding the darkened slices of bread with a sheepish grin, “How do you feel about burnt toast? They were my last slices...”

Blue scowled.

* * *

The rest of the breakfast time went by silently, neither of them talking about the awkwardness of the night before or anything at all and Ian was a bit grateful for that. He wasn’t entirely sure how to explain anything to him without potentially freaking him out. It wasn’t as easy as telling him, _“Hey, sorry that my dick brushed against yours and it turned me on because I’m gay and attracted to you in more ways than one,”_ but the silence had his mind replaying that moment, which was also not so great, so he needed the distraction.

“So,” Ian started. “Because I took today off too, I was going to go grocery shopping; ran out of bacon and other stuff. Wanna come with me since you’ve been stuck inside for so long?”

“You’re not going to push me in a cart, are you?” He asked with a strip of bacon between his teeth and a raised eyebrow.

Ian laughed, “Not unless you want me to.”

“How about you _don’t_ , and I may tag along.”

“Deal.”


	14. Assumptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I said I'd put the chapter up by the weekend, but...things happened and I couldn't. Sorry! But hopefully this makes up for it. mikhailosbitch gave me this idea, so hopefully it played out decently well; little somethin' somethin' to stir the pot up a bit lol

The two cobbled into Ian’s car after breakfast and a shower. 

Ian had purchased a shower chair earlier for Blue to use, so that he could at least shower on his own, help give his autonomy back. However, Ian refused to wait outside of the room as Blue showered despite the latter’s complaints and dismissals. He reminded Blue that it was he who bathed him while he was unconscious for so many days and even after until he got a decent amount of strength in his arms back to do it himself; he had seen everything already. It was like bathing a child at this point, he added to assure him he didn't have to be embarrassed. Needless to say, Blue did not appreciate that comparison. Ian still held his ground anyway, brushed his teeth, and the sat on the toilet until Blue was completely done and, to at least grant him some kind of privacy, he held out a spare towel as Blue got out of the shower and turned his head. Blue didn’t appreciate that either, preferring Ian on the other side of the door.

When they were ready to leave, Ian suggested grabbing a motor cart at the store so he wouldn’t have to push both him and a cart, make Blue carry a basket on his lap the entire time, or have him maneuver in and out of aisles on his own. There were a lot of turns in the stores and it probably wasn't the easiest thing to do, bringing in a wheelchair to a Costco and manually pushing it himself. So, they left the wheelchair in the apartment.

"So, you got a taste for anything specific for the week or at least dinner today?" Ian asked, glancing at Blue before focusing back on the road. He seemed to have had quickly gotten comfortable with Ian’s car because he figured out how to recline the seat to the point where his head overlapped to the back passenger window, almost the angle of a bed, and folded his arms over his chest.

“Not really.”

“Well, you’ve got 20 minutes to figure it out.”

“I don’t care; I’m not picky.”

“Bullshit,” Ian laughed, “This coming from the guy who denied basically everything on the hospital menu.”

“It’s not my fuckin’ fault that hospital food is shit.”

“And denying Hawaiian pizza?”

“I don’t know what type of meals you usually eat, but that’s possibly the worse fuckin’ kind of combination I have _ever_ heard of.”

“Well, then think of something that’s better!”

“That could be anything!”

Ian groaned, dramatically. “You've gotta be kidding me…”

Blue just shrugged. 

As predicted, they reached the parking lot of Costco in 20 minutes and, once again, Blue got out on his own before Ian even got out to help him. He probably shouldn’t even bother trying to help him out of the car anymore since he liked doing things himself.  
_Stubborn fucker_... With a sigh and a shake of his head, Ian stepped out of the car, locking it behind him. Blue was already half way to the automatic doors, doing his waddle-limp walk and Ian hurried in behind him. 

“Jesus—” He caught up to Blue when he got to the motorized cart and plopped into it. “Blue, will you slow down?

“What'dya mean? I’m slow as a fuckin’ turtle,” He countered, playing around with the controls to get the hang of the new contraption—a much more fun contraption, he seemed to think. He moved back and forth, turning the wheel left and right, completely enthralled by this. “How much you think these run?”

“I’m not getting you a fucking motor cart,” Ian rolled his eyes with a laugh. “Come on, let’s go.” He started walking to one side of the store and Blue followed behind him. They headed towards the aisle of cereals, granolas, break, and such. “Okay, so, what kind of quick breakfast would you like? There’s Cocoa Puffs at my place, but we can get something else.”

Blue drove up and down the aisle, looking thoroughly at each cereal like he was playing Deal or No Deal or something, like one of the boxes held a special prize and he had to pick the right one. Minutes later, he’d finally decided on a box of Fruit Loops. 

Ian muttered to himself before speaking up. “That all?”

In another second, he picked up another box of cereal and placed it in the cart, driving into another aisle, but not without picking up some bag of chips as he passed by it without a second thought, Ian hurrying behind him. He was having way too much fun with that thing… It was kind of adorable...

Ian had never been in Fiona’s shoes, having to deal with four children and a baby in a grocery store while everyone is grabbing everything they could get their little hands on and throwing them in the cart. Necessities were the last thing on all the kids’ minds despite Fiona giving them specific instructions on what to grab. The Gallaghers were everything but quiet by nature, which Ian could now understand was a cause for disaster and a making for an eventful trip. 

Shopping with Blue wasn't as much of a feat as with the young Gallaghers, but for some reason, Blue thought Ian had all the money in the world to spend on whatever the fuck he wanted and, if Ian was honest with himself too, those eyes were enough for him to give him the whole store. But, of course, they kind of needed to _live_ , so that was out of the question. Compared to grocery shopping by himself, it was a lot more frustrating, though a lot more interesting.

“You said to pick whatever I wanted!”

Ian sighed as they reached the produce section. Blue had been complaining the entire way there because he kept getting told 'no' more than 'yes' when he started sticking stuff in the cart. “I didn’t mean pick the whole fucking store!”

“Well, what if I did want fuckin’ ribs with a side of chicken and beans for dinner and— and chips and beer for dessert?”

“This isn’t a fucking all-you-can-eat buffet,” Ian rolled his eyes, inspecting the tomato he picked up before shooting a glance at Blue, “And you can’t even eat that much anyway, dumbass, and I told you already—no beer.”

“The hell— Do I get to pick what we eat for dinner or not, dickwad?”

“Not i—” Ian was cut off by a small laugh. It came from an old lady, seemingly old enough to be Ian's grandmother, on the other side of the produce table where Ian and Blue stood, placing her onions in a plastic bag. 

“Ah, young love,” She continued with a thoughtful smile.

“Uh, I’m sorry?” Ian piped up. In his peripheral, he saw Blue grabbing for the tomato in his hand to possibly throw it back where it came from (Blue didn’t seem to like vegetables very much, he had learned), so Ian moved his hand out of reach, smacking the culprit away.

“Have you two been together very long?”

“Excuse me?” Blue piped up immediately, a little too quick and a little too harsh.

“We’re, uh, we’re not a couple.” Ian shot her a small, embarrassed, but also apologetic smile.

“No? Oh my, my apologies,” She smiled the cutest little old lady smile, placing a hand on her chest, “I guess I shouldn’t just assume those things. It’s just you both reminded me of how my late husband and I were for years. He had quite the mouth on him. My parents hadn't thought very fondly of him, but I found it endearing,” She giggled. “Ah, well, don't mind a senile old lady like myself. I apologize.”

“Oh, no, it's—it’s fine.” Ian looked down at Blue who held the ugliest expression he'd ever seen on his face. It was almost enough to tell Ian everything he needed to know if he didn't already know Blue was very expressive and wasn't fond of most things. 

“Well, I hope you both do figure out what to do about dinner.” She shot a bright smile at them with another laugh, not at all faltered by Blue, which seemed to be understandable if her husband was the same way, and walked away. 

The two were quiet until Blue spoke up. “So, do I get to pick dinner or not?”

Ian was too focused on the path the woman took, still taken aback that a random woman who saw nothing but their usual spat, assume they were in a relationship, assume they both were gay. Ian's half of this non-mutual attraction couldn't have been _that_ obvious. 

“Yo.” 

Then, there was a punch in his leg that made him lose his balance for a split second before finally giving his attention to Blue. “Sorry, what?”

“You know that ol' bag of bones?”

Ian rolled his eyes and went back to picking the tomatoes. “Be nice, you dick. But no, I don't...”

“Hm. Well, anyway, do I get to pick dinner like you promised or not?”

“Fine. Whatever...”

Blue looked smug at the answer.

_I guess it isn't that obvious…_

* * *

This felt different. 

Blue wasn't sure why it was different. As annoyed as he should probably be with the constant back and forth with Ian and denial of the foods he wanted to purchase—well, the foods he wanted Ian to purchase, it was...fun? At the very least, more fun than he's had on the past two months and that's not saying much. It filled him with sort of a warm feeling as he drove around the Costco with Ian in his motorized cart, which was possibly the greatest machine ever known to disabled men everywhere. It beat using a wheelchair. 

Costco was a huge fucking grocery store. Actually, he couldn't even call it a grocery store because it had everything from fresh produce and packaged foods (such large packaging too; like it was made for a family of 4 at once) to clothing and electronics and a shit-load of toys. They even sold fucking carpet _and_ couches; it was like an amusement park for 'adulting'. 

And then everything came to a screeching halt when this old lady, who he was pretty sure appeared out of fucking thin air, called him and Ian a couple. In what _world_ did they seem like a couple? In the hospital, he'd seen plenty of them, young and old, and he'd also seem a few scattered along the streets on their way to the apartment and to Costco. They were all lovey-dovey and disgusting and shit; literally all over each other. He may not remember anything, but at least he knows what a couple is supposed to be and act like. He and Ian were everything but that—had done everything but that. They were arguing about dinner just then, for Christ's sakes. 

He and Ian… A couple… He could almost laugh at the thought.

Except he couldn't.

He was so thrown off by the combination of this immediate assumption, the absurdity of the notion, and this frenzy that was circling his chest and head that he didn't know how to react appropriately. It felt like he was being pulled from both sides. It made him anxious. Honestly, he wasn't sure how to react to things having to do with Ian since last night. It seemed easier to just forget, or just not talk about it at all, and move on. 

And that's exactly what he did.


	15. Game Changer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since an update! Well, I guess a week isn't long... It felt gelt long to me lol I was rightfully distracted by the Shameless filming in my city and I had to go down and see it every day of the week last week. I'm glad I did cuz I got to meet Emmy Rossum and she fed us cookies *u* Best day of my LIFE and then I couldn't focus enough to get the chapter finished until now. lol

It was only the second day at Ian's place and it felt like Ian was around _all the damn time_.

Although he had tried, Ian couldn't maneuver his schedule around to only the days Blue would have his physical therapy sessions so he could drop him off, pick him up, and be around when he’s at home to ensure he's not alone while still being able to work 40 full hours without killing himself. Blue was quick to shut that down both the night before and before Ian left for work as he worried over him like a mother dropping their first child in Preschool... Blue was certain to make sure Ian knew that he wasn't a fucking _child_ that needed to be on a 24 hour watch, that he could survive eight _goddamn_ hours in the day without him, and, after being stuck in a hospital where people walked in and out as they pleased, it would be a breath of fucking fresh air to have some time to himself. 

All very good and true reasons, but not really the main one.

Ian relented anyway because what else could he do, not go to work? And Blue was glad, even when Ian compromised by having switched his morning shift to the afternoon so that he could at least take him to and from the physical therapist., not comfortable letting Blue himself out in the neighborhood on his own yet.

Blue usually just assumed Ian had a morning-9-to-5 job because it was usually around evening time that Ian arrived at the hospital, but, he had learned that it was actually a 7am to 3pm shift. He always worked over his specified hours because of the cases out on the field or helping one of the "new kids" at the station learn the ropes. No wonder he sometimes looked tired, yet his mouth always told a different story.

But now, Blue was bored. So fucking bored. 

He had quickly made up for lost time with real TV through the night and for six hours straight since Ian left and he was tired of it at this point. In the hospital, there was personnel in his room every so often. Now, there was no one. Not until Ian came back around midnight as he was told. It was an odd change of routine. What else can you do when you're stuck in the house from the moment you wake up to the moment you go to sleep—or in Blue's case, when Ian goes to sleep and the next day restarts all over again? He made food when he was hungry and he could eat and eat and eat to kill time, but his small stomach wouldn't allow him more than one meal and constant snacking all day.

With a sigh, he dropped the remote on the couch next to him, running his hands over his face. The fuck was he going to do now? Standing up, he walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Soda, beer, water...Beer... He wasn't sure why, but he'd been craving the drink often and he'd never had a taste of it since he's been awake. Was he an alcoholic in his previous life? His fingers itched to take one of the bottles, but Ian's voice in the back of his mind was nagging at him when he reached out to grab for it as it did _every time_. And, like every time, he listened and grabbed a can of Coke instead, popping the tab open. He chugged back the soda, letting the carbonation burn the back of his throat and a burp escape as he walked around the studio, getting some walking practice in.

He realized he didn't actually get the full tour of Ian's apartment, the intimate details deeper than just "this is a bathroom" and "this is the kitchen" kind of deal. There wasn't a lot of space to keep things and there weren't a lot of things around the place as it was, save for the few picture frames on his dresser of which he'd never bothered looking at before since Ian usually just threw clothes at him and he'd never found a reason to into the dresser drawers. Curiosity and boredom don't mix well and he strolled over to it.

One picture frame held a very familial looking photo of nine people sitting at a table. He could easily pinpoint Ian, being the one the held the camera out as a group selfie with a giant smile that he wasn't entirely sure was a smile or grimace from stretching the other way to get himself and everyone else in the picture. The only difference between that picture and now was that Ian sported more of the stubble now and his hair was a bit shorter then. It must have not been too old of a picture. The others were a mystery to him. 

To the right of Ian was a guy who looked about his age with curly, sandy-brown hair and bright blue eyes. He sat next to a much younger boy, maybe a teenager, with darker hair more on the wavy side than the one sitting next to him, and he had blue eyes like the latter and a smirk with his chin jutted out. He could tell at least they were siblings. Next to that boy sat a much skinner brunette with curly hair. She had a very wide-smile plastered on her face, all teeth and everything, and a dark-skinned girl with dreads stood behind her, resting her chin on the brunette’s head and wrapping her arms loosely around the latter’s neck, and the brunette’s hands circled around girl’s forearms. It was a very close and friendly embrace. 

A bigger guy, in terms of build and the only one with a buzzcut and goatee, sat at the end of the table, right across from Ian, balancing two twin girls on his lap; all three of them with the biggest smiles on their faces. One of the girls held up the peace sign. Because they were more on the tan side, he assumed the guy that was holding them was their father and the dark-skinned girl was their mother. But that in turn made him question the dark-skinned boy who looked a few years older than the little girls. There was an empty seat that Blue thought belonged to the dark-skinned girl standing up, and then the kid with a spoon or a fork in his mouth, smiling around the utensil. He didn't look a thing like those two or anyone at the table. Who was he related to? Neighborhood boy down the street or something?

Next to the boy sat a older girl, most likely a teenager, with curly, red hair and tight-lipped smile, curly hair a little darker than Ian's and brown eyes rather than Ian's green--he wondered if she and Ian were actually related because she did look similar, but then again Blue couldn't say with certainty that he could pick apart one redhead from the other. She held a baby girl in her arms, which he assumed was definitely hers because she did have red curly hair too. The toddler looked like she was squealing and her arms were mid-motion, probably flapping her arms with the toy unicorn in her hand, eyes focus on the table in front of her. 

There were no parents in the picture, Blue noticed. Was this a friends' dinner or something? It was such an odd mix of people.

Blue moved on to the next picture from which was a photo of three of the boys from the last one and Ian. This one was taken by someone else because it was a full body picture during Christmas, Blue guessed since they were wearing ugly Christmas sweaters. They all looked a few years younger. Ian was carrying the toddler version of the dark-skinned boy, lips attached to his cheek. The boy enjoyed it by the giant grin on his face. Maybe he wasn't the neighborhood kid?

Ian was sporting a buzzcut himself and Blue couldn't help but think he actually looked good with a buzzcut. And then he was grossed out himself because he was attracted to a far too illegal version of Ian. The other guy who looked around Ian's age had his arms thrown over the younger boy that Blue initially thought he was related to. The kid had much less hair than the other picture and looked so much shorter. It definitely had been a few years between the two pictures. 

In the last picture that sat on the dresser, it was another familial one but it didn't have the big guy and his supposed wife or their daughters. The one addition was an older man in it with messy hair and growing beard, holding a beer bottle in his hand and everyone looked to be in a backyard of some sort. Ian couldn't be more than ten. He looked so different than he did now and in the other pictures. The only way he could tell was that goofy grin, a ridiculously curly red 'fro and face completely splattered with freckles and it made Blue burst out in laughter. He was a stereotypical looking red-head. And he was so small! Beneath his laughter that caused him to double over, he couldn't help but wonder if Ian was bullied a lot in school; he must have been, looking like that. If Blue went to his school, he definitely could see himself being one of those bullies picking on Ian. The kid definitely went crashing right into his growth spurt at full fucking speed.

Everyone looked so fucking happy, Blue thought, going down Ian's past. He came up in a huge ass family, and may or may not have been adopted—Blue still couldn't tell, but he looked happy and they all looked so close. He remembered Ian telling him about the family dinners that he and his family have every month. It was also two of the days that Ian didn't show up in the hospital besides the other two right after they had their little argument. Ian had gone through names, but seeing the pictures made it more real than it being just a story. He had an entire lifetime of stories and Blue could only tell you about the past three months, his stories only including Ian. His only reachable memories, all of Ian... 

Fuck.

Ian was his _life..._

At least right now, and it was a weird fucking realization. Not only because those were words that should only ever come out of a couple's mouths (which he and Ian were definitely not, _goddamn old hag_ ), but also because it was _literally_ true…

With a clear of his throat and a shake of his head, trying to stop himself from falling deeper into that thought as that unwelcomed feeling of anxiety started to build up again. Was he having another panic attack? It felt different than before and that was a feeling he didn't think he could ever forget. Both hands grabbed onto the edge of the dresser to steady himself as the room started losing focus, pictures turning into six, then two, four, eight… He blinked to uncross his vision to no avail. He couldn't keep staring at them and squeezed his eyes shut. Not even his own feet could keep him upright. He reached for the couch to try to steady himself, now craving the solace of the hard surface, but he ended up missing the arm completely and toppled over, everything going black around him.

* * *

Ian wasn't nervous about much these days. Nothing really kept his mind occupied with “what if's", nothing made him fidget, nothing made him lose focus on whatever task he needed to handle that day and the tasks were usually medically related, which were probably the worst things a medical personnel could ever be distracted from. 

But he started to realize that changed ever since Blue became a constant in his life. 

Ian would wonder what he was doing, when he was doing it, who did he yell at today, what of his obligations did he just flat out refuse to do just because he didn't want to, where did he sneak off to. Many times did he want to call the hospital just to check on him. But he knew by now Blue wouldn't give any slight inclination to if he was feeling better or worse; he, and the nurses, would guess just based on his body language, which spoke more honestly than his own mouth did, most of the time. 

But, it had never interfered with his work because Blue was always monitored. Someone would check on him every so often, more than he could, and that was okay. That was good enough.  
That wasn't the case anymore. 

Granted, it was a slow day and these weren't critical mistakes, they were very small, but it was enough for others to notice something was off because it was unlike him after all this time. For good reason, though. Blue had never been completely alone since he'd woken up and Ian had been on edge since he left home. 

But he was fine. Blue was fine. He could handle himself. Like he had said many times before, he didn't need to be hovered over anymore. He wouldn't trip and fall. He wouldn't fall off his small balcony. He wouldn't—

"Hey, Gallagher." A shove of his arm took him out of his reverie, his knee unable to stop bouncing in its place. He turned to the culprit quickly, panic covering his expression for only a second when he soon realized it was Sue who then sat down next to him. "You alright, kid?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," He smiled.

"Really?" Only one perfectly tweezed brow shot up and he knew he was being scrutinized under her gaze. It was pretty much a regular expression for her. "Justin and Matt seem to think differently. You're kind of off your game today, it sounds like."

"Ah, really?" Ian rubbed the back of his neck.

Sue was quiet, her stare steady. "Are your meds not working again? I thought you were doing better on them this time. Are you not taking your meds, Ian?"

"No, it's not—"

"Ian," She sternly cut him off, "We haven't had to pull out that video in a while. I don't want to do it now..."

"Sue, I promise; it's not that. The meds are working. I'm just, I'm just worried about someone."

"Worried? About who? Family?"

"Um, not exactly... I've just been taking care of someone for the past three months. He just got out of the hospital and this is the first day that I've left him completely alone."

"Who's this person?"

"He's...no one... Literally..." Ian mumbled to himself and the look in Sue's eyes urged him to elaborate. He was a bit hesitant to, not sure how she would react, but there were only three people in the world he'd ever confide in like this: Lip, Fiona, and, recently, Sue. Maybe her input would be more empathetic than family although all three would usually tell it like it is. 

Biting the bullet, he filled Sue in about Blue, giving her the general gist as opposed to the detailed story he gave Lip, but she did get the more updated story.

“For not being family, you seem to care an awful lot about a stranger to be doing all this.” Her words held a bit of calculation as if she was trying to piece together something from this story. Maybe it was too general? Not specific enough? Was there something he missed that didn’t connect well?

“I, uh, I guess? I mean, I know I’m not obligated to do it, but, y'know, someone has to. He’s got no one right now.”

“Is that really all it is? That’s why you’re doing it?”

"Yes? Why...Why else would I be doing it...?" Ian was thoroughly confused. What, out of everything he told her, would constitute for any other reason? "I'm not treating him like a pet if that's what you're getting at."

"A pet—what? No. I mean, aren't you seeing that one kid, what was his name... Owen, or something?"

Owen, what? That guy hadn't crossed his mind at all. Owen had been one of those..."flings" he had that became constant. He hadn't actually had a boyfriend that he was "seeing" since Trevor, having been on and off after the breakup. The only reason Sue knew about him was that he surprised Ian one day by going over to the station to take him out to dinner. But it had been a good while since then and also a couple months since he stopped seeing him altogether—he wanted a relationship that Ian wasn't ready to give him.

"It's been a long while since we even talked, but, no, I'm not 'seeing' him; never really have... What does he have to do with this?"

"It sounds to me you actually like this guy and you know absolutely nothing about him.”

“What?” Ian laughed, taken aback. “Why would you say that?”

“For one very obvious reason, you just described _him_ in more detail than you described your dilemma. And, two, I can pretty much say with certainty that if it was any of us here in your situation, we would have let the hospital handle it the moment we take him in, or better yet, let the police handle it—”

“But the police was trying to condemn him before they got questions! And there’s no way he could defend himself. You know how Chicago police are with the Southsiders. How would you feel if you woke up and you had no idea where you were, what year it was, and was about to be taken in for having a pound of marijuana on you with no recollection of it? The police would do no other thing than take you in and question you until they break you. I couldn’t let that happen to him.”

Sue held up her hands in defense. “I was just saying. You care more than you should at this point.” 

“Look, I may be attracted to him, but that’s all that it’s going to be.”

“Sure…” Ian could tell the skepticism never left, but she didn’t indulge. He at least appreciated the fact that she didn’t tell him he was projecting onto him or it was a bad idea, or something, because, honestly, what’s the worst that could happen? “But I’m sure he’s fine. How much trouble can he really get into in a studio apartment? He’s got a wheelchair if he needs it right?”

“I guess you’re right…”

The two talked a bit more on the subject, mostly her trying to calm his raging nerves, and talking to her did help him settle down a bit, but just enough for him to focus on work for the rest of the day, calling it quits at 11PM on the dot. He rushed home, just barely obeying the speed limits. Police kept vigilant eyes at this time of night. 

Jumping out of the car, he practically took two steps up the stairs until he reached front door, having the key already out and ready for use. 

“Blue?” He called out as he shut the door behind him. There was no response. Maybe he was asleep? Shit—or worse, maybe he did fall out of the balcony? “Blue?” Panic was beginning to rise as he once again received no response. 

Ian walked further into the apartment to check if the window was open. Thank God, it wasn’t, but he noticed the snacks that littered the coffee table. Blue was going to eat himself into a diabetic coma if he wasn’t careful. Ian would have to— 

“ _Blue?_ ” 

Panic was full-fledged when he saw Blue’s body partially hidden by the coffee table and couch and Ian dropped everything, rushing to his side. He instantly regretted that diabetic coma thought… “Fuck, Blue…” Lifting Blue’s head onto his lap, Ian patted Blue’s cheeks as he inspected his features. He wasn’t blue or anything, skin color was still normal. He was still breathing a little faster than normal and he did have a bump on his forehead. Did he fall and hit something or did he hit something and fall? 

No matter what he did Blue wasn’t coming into consciousness and he hoped to God he really wasn’t in another coma. 

Ian picked Blue up, just dead weight in his arms—bench-pressing a little more than his own weight was really paying off—and took him over to the bed. He laid him down gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. He brushed his head back and felt his forehead, which wasn’t abnormally warm either. What was going on? Did he just pass out?

Blue eyebrows furrowed slightly and continued to do so every so often. This was unlike when he was in a coma… Was he just asleep? Blue stirred but he wasn’t waking up, so Ian grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom, wrapped it around a Ziploc bag of ice, and brought it back to Blue’s bedside. He placed it on his forehead, focusing more on the bump, and just waited for him to wake up. 

Twenty minutes had passed once Blue mellowed out and relief washed over Ian when blue eyes met with his again. He still seemed tired, however.

“Welcome back, sleepyhead,” Ian smiled softly. “You had me worried there, man.” Blue moved Ian’s hand away, not with the same harshness he usually had surprisingly so and sat up against the wall. “You alright?”

Blue nodded, rubbing his forehead, and hissed when he reached the bump.

“You’ll need this,” Ian suggested, holding out the makeshift ice bag. “What happened?”

“I don’t know… One minute, I’m looking at your pictures on the dresser and everything started spinning and, the next, I wake up here… With a ridiculous headache…”

“I’ll go get you some aspirin. You hit your head when you fell.” Ian stood up and began walking to the bathroom when he noticed Blue trying to get out of bed. “Stay in bed, Blue; I got it.” He was about to open the door to the room when he heard Blue say something that caused him to stop in his tracks. He wasn’t sure if he heard right not, but he was almost afraid if he asked it wouldn’t be repeated… But he had to. “What…what did you say?”

“I’m not sure, but…I think my name is Mickey…”

Ian made his way back to Blue, or Mickey in this case? “Why…why do you think that?”

“A memory…I guess…”

“What happened in the memory?”

“Not sure of the context, but I was in a room, looking into a bassinet…there was a baby in it, and there was a voice… A girl’s. ‘Congrats, Mickey. You’re a father.’ But…I wasn’t happy about it and it didn’t sound like she was either. It didn’t make sense.”

Ian just watched Blue—Mickey (that was going to take some getting used to) look as deflated as he sounded. Mickey looked at him and Ian was quick to smile back. “Well, Mickey, at least we got something that we can start with, I guess? Does ‘Mickey’ sound familiar to you?”

“Actually...yeah.”

"Is Mickey short for anything or is that it?"

"I don't know. I ain't the fuckin' mouse or whatever, I can tell you that much..."

“Well, you didn't get anything else from it? Last name, face to the voice, nothing?”

“Don’t you think I would’ve fuckin’ told you if there was?” He spat.

“And there’s my Blue,” Ian chuckled, patting his shoulder and Mickey swatted his hand away. “Well, at least it wasn’t as bad of a memory as the other two have been, so that’s good. I’ll go get the aspirin, ‘kay?” Blue didn’t reply. Ian took that as an affirmation anyway and stood up, heading back to the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the bottle of aspirin before shutting it, but his feet didn’t move to get back to Mickey. He just stood there blindly staring at his reflection.

He couldn’t deny it; his heart sunk hearing those words—not like he was really hoping for anything else as he told Sue earlier in the day. He had a whole child. His own family. Probably a fucking wife, which is probably who that voice belonged to too. He had a whole life that seemed to be more than just him. 

With a sigh, he shook his head and pulled out his brushing cup, filling that up with water. He left the room to make his way back to the bed, but Mickey was at the coffee table, sealing the food he left out. 

“Blue—I mean, Mickey,” It was definitely going to take some getting used to. “Don’t worry about it; I can clean it up. I told you to stay in bed.”

“I’m fine,” He replied, keeping his attention on the table. 

Ian frowned, not sure what was going through his mind right now. He could only imagine how lost one would be having a whole family, having their own flesh and blood, and not knowing them. When Ian found out about his own biological father, Frank’s brother Clayton, he did everything to avoid searching him out, but Mickey might have been different, he may have wanted to search his family out and worst of all, the mother of his child hadn’t even been looking for him. Or maybe she was searching in the wrong place, wrong neighborhood, or the wrong city? They finally had some information, but they were still at square one with not many places, if any, to go with it.

Ian watched Mickey take the food, waddle-limping into the kitchen himself, and knew he'd have to work closely with him on this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we can throw away the name Blue, yayyy.


	16. Underneath Your Smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know- I just updated three days ago (literally was going to post this yesterday lol). This one was pretty quick to finish. You know how much I enjoy serving you up some "medical knowledge"...you're going to get that today lol I'm pretty sure it's the last medical tidbit you're going to get. But, this is where I change things up a bit on you Shameless watchers. You get more of Ian's backstory in this chapter but, as a reminder (because I still kept shit close to the original) the canonical events are altered a bit since they never personally met before.
> 
> Also, I thoroughly appreciate your guys' comments!! Y'all are true motivators :)

Mickey never realized how early Ian woke up normally until he actually watched him go to sleep and wake up every day. 

Like clockwork, ever since he started living there, Ian would be up interchangeably at 5 or 6 every other day—sometimes a little before the alarm, which he moved over to his dresser by the couch. Mickey wasn't the one that needed it and that shit got annoying after the first morning. Ian had mentioned he usually woke up at 5 every day, so his body was already pretty accustomed to waking up early as fuck, but he also made comments on how the couch wasn't something he could sleep comfortably on, so he couldn't fall into a sleep deep enough not to wake up so early. He would then put on a pot of coffee, of which they both preferred to drink black, before he disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. According to him, not many people he knew, besides his own family, drank it black. Mickey preferred the bitter taste and the effects of the caffeine would be diluted with anything else, so what would the point of coffee be? Ian wholeheartedly agreed and, on that topic, they didn't argue for once.

Ian would come out of the bathroom ten minutes later, dripping wet, holding a towel around his waist and go over to the dresser to pull out his clothes for the day. What was the point of the towel if he was just going to come out wet, honestly? That was a question Mickey never bothered to verbalize because he never wanted Ian to acknowledge the fact that, one, he was awake long before him, or, two, that he stared a little longer than necessary—unconsciously longer and longer each day that passed—and found himself revisiting the moment of that first night, when they were a little too close for comfort, and thoughts of what that old lady at Costco insinuated. _Goddamn shit-starter..._ Or, three, the most important reason, it alluded to the idea that Mickey might have preferred Ian didn't have a towel on and that had _so_ not been the case.

The anxiety he'd felt before came back with every thought. It grew more and more, and made him nervous, more nervous than he'd ever care to admit, to be around Ian for reasons he wasn't entirely sure of. It was similar to what he'd felt after those dreams in the hospital yet not as intense. Dreams like those hadn't come back since then either, but that was because he was doing a pretty decent job staying awake, thanks to infinite access of real coffee now. He had also practiced nodding off for about 10 to 15 minutes if he was starting to see double from exhaustion, thanks to Ian's handy alarm clock, which he remembered to set back to the regular time before Ian would come back home.

Despite all those accomplishments, it was getting really fucking difficult to continue the whole forget-and-move-on thing that had been working so well the first few days... He became more aware of Ian's presence–what he did, when he did it, what he said, how he said it. As much as Ian could keep tabs on him, Mickey could do the same with Ian. They fell into this weird domestic routine, working like two cogs fitted together to make their days run smoothly. They went grocery shopping together on Ian's days off. Every day, Ian would make breakfast and Mickey heated up lunch (he turned out to be not that great of a cook, but that timer on the oven was a godsend) and Ian would take it to work. Before bed, they even folded fucking _laundry_ together, after Mickey would put them in the wash earlier in the day, while watching Van Damme movies and Steven Seagal ones, the latter becoming Mickey's newfound favorites, but none of which felt remotely brand new to him.

While Ian was gone, he became well aware of the silence, the emptiness of the apartment. By no control of his own, he would play back the events of the morning when it got too quiet for him and he started to see what that old woman saw. He was no longer just in his own head; he was on the outside looking in and the image of a supposed "relationship" budding from this “domestic partnership” that they had going on became clearer as the days went by. He _missed_ Ian's presence while he was gone... But the most important aspect that she failed to acknowledge was missing—the obvious passion, romance, whatever the fuck you want to call it. He and Ian didn’t have that. This was strictly platonic. They were two friends, two roommates who share clothes and food and life. That’s it.

But, at least he didn't have to focus on it for too long since he had rehab sessions mid-morning every other day for two hours before Ian had to start his shift later at three. So, the only person Mickey needed to _somewhat_ pay attention to was his therapist and then he focused on being physically steady and strong enough for Ian to let him leave the apartment on his own. He would grab the sets of weights he had stumbled upon in Ian's closet and worked out on his own. It definitely helped when those thoughts came back. Ian would have his head if he found out he was doing "strenuous activities" without his, or anyone's, supervision. 

Whatever, he was a grown man. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Mickey stepped out of the shower after his workout, drying himself off with his towel, and wrapped it around his waist. He left the bathroom and walked over to the dresser, grabbing a pair of boxers from the top drawer and slipped it on. He went into the second drawer for a t-shirt and threw it on, but when he went into the next drawer for pair of pants, he noticed all that was in there were jeans, which he'd already learned he couldn't fit into and shorts, but Ian had enough sweatpants for him to stick to and they were much more comfortable than the tight jeans, so he was fine with that option. He dug through the articles of clothing. There weren't anymore? He lifted the stack of folded shorts and there were four medication bottles that resembled the ones he was given from the hospital upon discharge. What did Ian need pain meds for? 

He picked up one of the bottles. It was almost empty. _Ian Clayton Gallagher…Take one tablet every six hours daily… Lithium…_ Mickey frowned, searching the shallow contents of his brain. What was Lithium for? He picked up another bottle and that one read Zyprexa. The other bottles were duplicates of those two and none of them sounded anything like pain medications as far as his knowledge went, which wasn’t very far, to begin with. 

Curiosity got the best of him, so he took the bottles out and grabbed Ian’s laptop, taking a seat on the bed. Ian had given him the password to the computer so that he could search the internet if he wanted. He hadn’t really used it lately, not entirely sure what he would use it for. Ian had at one point searched up “missing persons” in the area and there was a hell of a lot more people missing than both of them thought, but none of the names were remotely familiar, none of them were 'Mickey', and none of the few pictures that were posted were of him. Still, Ian still made him search daily while he left for work because something could pop up and they wouldn’t even know.

Mickey had given up searching on his own after the second week. He was frustrated with it. It had been this long and no one had made inquiries about him, so he came to the conclusion that there was no one looking for him. Not even his own supposed "family". Right now, Ian was the closest thing to family he had and he was fine with it. But that didn't mean Ian was as he literally sat with him every single day, searching through the world wide web for anyone named Mickey or names that had the nickname Mickey, before he left for work.

This time, he was looking for what Lithium and Zyprexa were used for. He typed in Lithium in Google and it was a surprisingly quick and simple answer: _‘It can treat and prevent manic episodes of bipolar disorder.’_ He scrolled further down and ‘Bipolar Disorder’ came up many more times, more so than the other words ‘major depression’, ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’, and ‘depressive disorder’. Before he dug into what Bipolar Disorder was, he looked up what Zyprexa was. Again, Bipolar Depression came up and it was also said it’s taken in conjunction to Lithium for that very reason.

Ian has...Bipolar Disorder? Mickey wasn’t sure what that was except for one of the links calling it a “mental disorder”. The further he looked in, the more confused he became. _“…as known as manic-depressive illness, is a brain disorder that causes unusual shifts in mood, energy, activity levels, and the ability to carry out day-to-day tasks”_ , and they all said variations of the same thing alternating between depression and mania. But how? Ian seemed fine to him. He didn’t seem crazy or anything. Sure, some days he might have talked faster than usual and others he seemed chill as hell, but he had chocked it up to the caffeine and sometimes lack thereof. Other than that, he didn’t seem any different. Apparently, he was functioning well enough to work and drive a fucking ambulance too, so what was that about?

Mickey spent more time reading through more links of the disorder, finding himself reading through treatments and care. A lot of it had to do with support and it made Mickey wonder how much support Ian did get living on his own, from his own family, especially when he spent every waking minute with him when he wasn’t at work. 

The door jiggled a bit and Mickey had no time to put the stuff back before the door opened and there stood Ian, stopped in his tracks when he saw everything laid out on the bed. It didn’t take long for him to put two and two together when the dresser drawer was still open right beside him, but Ian walked over hurriedly to the dresser anyway, probably to make sure he was right. He swiped one of the bottles from the bed and looked at it.

“Mickey. What’re you doing…?”

“Uhm…”

“Why are you going through my stuff?”

“Hold on, I was doing no such fuckin’ thing. I was just looking for sweatpants to wear and I found those. Need I remind you, we share clothes?” 

“That meant you had to take out my meds?” 

“I was curious... How come you didn’t tell me you were Bipolar?” He asked, watching Ian pick up the remaining bottle from the bed and the others out of the dresser. Ian’s jaw was set as he did so, juggling the pill bottles in his arms.

“That’s not something I disclose to everyone I meet, Mickey. Literally only my family and one of my exes know. And now, you, I guess…” He ended up putting the bottles in the very bottom drawer of his nightstand that sat on the other side of the bed.

“...Are you mad that I found out?”

“Yes,” He answered, quickly, and stood up, straightening out the wrinkles in his pants from crouching. “No… I don’t, I don’t know. Just…didn’t want you thinking I’m crazy or something.”

“Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“You kind of have nowhere else to go…” Ian chuckled and took a seat on the edge of the bed, bending over to remove his shoes.

“You’re right,” Mickey nodded, thoughtfully. “I’m trapped in here with a psycho and no way to escape.” The look of disbelief on Ian’s face was enough to make the comment worth it. “I’m kidding, dumbass.”

“Jackass,” Ian shook with head with a small laugh. Mickey smiled.

It was silent for a bit, only the sounds of Ian removing his work clothes filling the room, as Mickey contemplated how to ask the questions he had in a subtle manner, but he hasn’t really been one of subtlety as far as he knew, so he asked anyway. “How long have you had it?” 

Ian sat back on the bed as he slid the articles of clothing onto hangers. “Was clinically diagnosed around six years ago, but it probably started showing before that in small ways and we just didn't know it.”

“How did it start?” Mickey asked, turning to face Ian.

“Not sure. I don’t think you really know how it starts; you can just…assume when it started.”

“Which was when?”

“When I went out and joined the army at 17, I guess.”

“At 17? Can you even do that?”

“No…” He scratched the back of his head with a sheepish smile. “I got a fake ID made with Lip’s credentials.”

“Your brother? Shit, Gallagher. You _are_ crazy.”

“Well, I’d had my heart set on joining the army long before that and was working towards it, but kept failing, so it wasn’t too out there. I was in ROTC in high school, remember? But it didn’t click to my sister until a little after I left the army early and hit the depression phase...”

“What happened?”

“Uhm… I didn’t get out of bed for, like, a week or something according to everyone at home—all the days just seemed the same to me. I didn’t have the desire to do anything, didn’t want to eat, shower… stuff like that. The first thing she wanted to do was put me in a hospital, but I refused to go. And I didn't for a while until it got pretty bad in my manic state…”

“How bad…?”

“As bad as stealing your little sister’s baby, stealing a car, and attempting driving to Florida with her, and then running from cops after I left her in the car can get…”

“Shit…” He had read about some people's experiences in their mania and depression. Ian's was classic depression, but his manic stage so unlike what he had read.

“I know,” Ian groaned, hiding his face in his hands, “Debbie wouldn’t let me anywhere near Frannie for months after that and she wouldn’t talk to me either. I felt like absolute shit.”

“Well…it’s not really your fault, right? It was the disorder. You couldn’t have known how bad it would get…”

“I guess…” Ian leaned over his knees, elbows propping themselves on top, as he just stared at the front door. The expression on his face was the most sullen Mickey had ever seen it and it filled his chest with such a heaviness that the urge to will it away grew stronger by the second. “I did a lot of stupid shit... But I should’ve known better. Our mom had it too and she ran off when we were just kids and babies because of it.”

“Did she have it as bad?”

“I don’t know if you can compare our situations, but her ultimate low was when she slit her wrists during fucking Thanksgiving. This was a few years before I showed any symptoms. So, in that regard, yeah, she might have had it worse and she dealt with it the longest.”

“Fuck, Ian…”

“Yeah… Welcome to part of the craziness that is the Gallaghers…” 

The satiric smile on his lips coupled with the sad or embarrassed look in his eyes when he finally looked at him broke Mickey’s heart. Whatever he went through before and what he’s going through now didn’t seem half as bad as what Ian had gone through in his lifetime… There was so much more he had been hiding underneath his smiles. Shit. He felt so much for the guy just then that he didn’t realize when he had gotten close enough to Ian to put a hand over his until Ian had turned his own hand around and squeezed gently. 

Mickey didn’t let go and, honestly, he didn’t really want to.

They stayed like that for an indefinite amount of time, just looking at each other, and Mickey couldn’t really describe what he was feeling in that moment. A moment of which neither of them had really been in before, at least with each other. Ian had told him a lot about himself before, but it was usually what happened during the day at work or about when he visited his family. It was always something funny or positive or he was brushing over details of his past that Mickey didn't see the need to dig further in, and very rarely did he mention anything that was much of a concern. 

This was a whole different ballgame. It was a touchy subject, one that didn’t seem like he was very comfortable talking about, but Ian had shared his lowest points with him. There was one thing that Mickey realized from this little heart-to-heart: he definitely didn't want to see Ian go down that road his mom did. If he was truly honest with himself, that possibility actually terrified him. As much as he complained to Ian that he was 'suffocating' him and treating him like a 'child', he never really considered the thought of the redhead completely out of his life.

Ian seemed to step back into reality, sitting up straight as he pulled his hand out of Mickey’s, and breathed in deeply as if to clear the air. The smile he now had seemed a little bit brighter than the last. “But, hey, at least we’re finally doing better years later, right? Even though I feel like, sometimes, they forget that about me because I moved out on a manic whim too.”

Mickey nodded, never having shifted his eyes from him. He wasn't entirely sure if it was another mask he put over his wounds.

“So...I guess this is now is a pretty bad time to invite you to the Gallagher Christmas dinner in a couple days, huh? A little weirded out?”

Mickey shrugged in reply. "I'm fine. I'll go."

"We'd be there for a few days. You'll be in a small house filled to the brim with 10 other people. It's just—I would feel terrible if I left you at home by yourself on Christmas."

"Okay...?" Did he not just answer Ian's question, like, a second ago?

"The fact that that me and at least that part of my family history is pretty messed up doesn't scare you away?"

"I think it'll take a lot more than that to scare me away, Gallagher. And, like you said, you're doing better and I can see that. At least in the last few months that I've known you. I was reading about it online and I couldn't see much of what they described, so I think you're good."

"You sure?" His gaze was steady on Mickey's, firm, as if searching for a lie somewhere.

"Yes, oh my God, Ian," Mickey sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "You deaf or somethin'? You still see me sitting here, don't you? You’re not getting your bed back that easily."

Ian laughed, a more genuine laugh this time and Mickey enjoyed it. "Okay, okay. Just wanted to make sure I'm not keeping you here against your will or anything."

Mickey rolled his eyes. "I think I have a _little_ bit of autonomy here. I'm not an invalid."

"I never said that. I'm just saying–"

"Stop it," Mickey pointed firmly to the couch. "It's late. Go to bed, Ian."

"Yes, mom." Ian grinned, pushing himself off the bed. 

Mickey shook his head, but couldn't help the toothy-grin that slowly made itself known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's heart is opening up and you got a little heart-to-heart~ I'm sure you all wanted that by now lol I was so not confident about the moment...but I hope you guys enjoyed as much as I did ^^'


	17. Christmas Dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18 whole days it took me to complete this chapter. Can you believe it?? I apologize sincerely! The juice I usually have for the story didn't kick in as usual. Internal struggles, man. But here it is, Gallagher Christmas part 1! It's a lukewarm chapter, but long af; you've got the whole family (and extended family) to introduce to Mickey, sorry lol
> 
> Btw, full disclosure: I can't remember Sierra's son's name for the life of me and I don't care enough to figure it out, so we're calling him Nathan LOL

Ian grabbed his duffle bag out of passenger seat in the back as Mickey did the same with his brand new duffle. He was much more satisfied with the amount of clothes that were folded in Mickey’s bag this time, although the other hadn’t taken much more than he originally was going to. When they had woken up and packed, Mickey had tried to take a half-full book bag of two sweatpants, a hoodie, and his toothbrush and toothpaste. It was fine now though. At least Mickey compromised without much of a fight this time.

“Can you help me grab the other presents in the trunk?” Ian asked, shutting the passenger door and walked around to the mentioned spot, lifting the top. Mickey complied, shrugging the duffle onto his shoulder, and took place beside him, eyes bulging at the sight.

“Fuck, Ian, how the hell did you think you were going to get all this shit in there if I didn’t end up coming?” He situated the duffle again, letting the bag sit against his backside, and picked up several wrapped boxes and gift bags.

“It would’ve been the greatest balancing act of the century.” Ian grabbed the rest, shutting the trunk with his elbow, no hands available to facilitate the work. “And maybe a few trips from the car.”

“Jesus,” Mickey muttered, juggling the presents in his arms.

“Come on.” The two made their way up to the front porch, carefully walking up the steps as they were littered with snow. It was also night time, so no one needed broken ankles tonight. Mickey waited for Ian by the door to have it unlocked, but the latter just turned the knob, pushing the door open. “The door is pretty much never locked. Ever.”

Upon entering the home, the first thing they were greeted with was the sound of the TV blaring in the background as they set down the presents in their hands to remove their coats and wet boots.

Ian unzipped his hoodie, though still leaving it on. “Come on, let’s see who’s home right now.” Mickey obliged silently, following Ian out of the entryway. Even though it was the back of their heads, Ian knew it was Carl and Liam on the couch in front of him, watching what looked to be the middle of Mission Impossible—he wasn’t sure which number though. 

“What’s up, knuckleheads,” Ian grinned, grabbing the top of their heads and jostling them out of their distraction. They both looked up immediately, Liam beaming and Carl grinning.

“Ian!” Liam jumped up and caught his older brother in a tight hug.

“Hey, little man!” Ian laughed and pulled back slightly, placing a kiss in his hair before ruffling his mini afro. “How are ya?” 

“Good!” He grinned.

“’Sup, man,” Carl added, clapping hands with Ian in a bro-hug.

“Hey, Carl,” Ian smiled. “Oh, guys, this is Mickey,” He added, stepping to the side a bit as Mickey was just standing in the background, having watched the interaction. “Mickey, these are my brothers, Carl—”

“Yo,” Carl nodded upwards, chin jutting out.

“And Liam.”

“Hi,” Liam waved.

“Hey,” Mickey replied with what Ian assumed was supposed to be a smile, but looked more like a grimace, shifting his weight from the foot to the other.

“He your new boyfriend now?” Carl asked, looking Mickey up and down. Liam went back to watching the movie, disenchanted by any further conversation.

Ian choked on his own saliva. “No! No, he’s just a friend. He’s been living with me for a little while now.”

Carl nodded, slowly; eyes squinted in thought as he looked between the two guys. “Living with you… And he’s not your boyfriend?”

“No, Carl. We’re just…roommates.”

“But don’t you live in a studio…?”

“Okay!” Ian interjected, patting his tactless brother on his shoulders. He’s had enough of this conversation now as it wasn’t going anywhere good. “So, where’s everyone else?”

“Debbie’s upstairs with Frannie. Fiona and V are in the kitchen making turkey with Kev and the twins. Lip’s on his way with Sierra and Nathan.”

“Alright, we’re gonna go say hi to Fiona then.” Ian patted Carl’s shoulder once more before turning to the kitchen where he heard his sister and V laughing and saw Kev at the dining table, making something with the twins. He looked back to Mickey and Carl’s eyes glued on the brunet curiously; he wasn't even being discreet about sizing Mickey up, who looked back at Carl uncomfortably. 

Ian took Mickey by the wrist and pulled him into the kitchen, Carl’s curious gaze never leaving him. “Sorry, he’s a little—”

“Ian!” V exclaimed, being the first to notice him walking into the room with Mickey in hand, as Fiona had been elbow-deep in turkey. Kev, the twins, and Fiona greeted him with a chorus of 'Hey!'s and 'Ian!'s.

“Hey, guys,” Ian laughed as V waddled over with arms open wide. He hugged her as much as her protruding belly would allow and he pulled back to rub circles over it. “How’s little Deandre doing?”

“Kicking like fucking Cristiano Ronaldo,” V laughed, cradling her stomach. “Kid doesn’t let me sleep! Just a few more weeks and he’ll finally be out of here…”

“Aw,” Ian laughed at the exasperation oozing from his long-time neighbor and practically family member. Apparently, she still wasn’t used to pregnancy after the twins. Not that Ian really knew if any mother could really “get used to” it.

“Okay, okay, my turn,” Fiona butted in, running her hands through a towel, before enveloping Ian in another hug, a tighter one with such force that they swayed side-to-side. “Hey, kiddo! I miss you!”

“Miss you too, Fi,” Ian reciprocated the fierce hug, receiving a kiss on the cheek from his sister.

She pulled back a bit, looking her baby brother up and down with her usual wide smile. “You look good. How are you? How’s everything?”

“Everything’s good,” Ian smiled back, answering generally. “I brought a plus 1. I hope that’s okay with you guys.” Mickey was still standing away, arms crossed over his chest as he took in the new surroundings. Ian was sure he probably didn’t know what to do with himself in these situations, not having known a single person here. 

The two women looked behind Ian and he stepped aside again. 

"What am I going to do, tell him to go home? He’s already here,” Fiona laughed and held her hand out, “Hi, I'm Fiona." 

Mickey looked down at it for a few seconds before he took it, hesitantly. “Mickey.”

“Mickey? Hm...it’s nice to meet you, Mickey. You’re welcome to the Gallagher Christmas. You stayin' over too?” She asked, resting her hands on her waist. “We’ve got extra blankets and pillows, but we don’t have enough beds. You may end up having to share a couch or the floor or somethin'.”

“He’s staying,” Ian answered when Mickey looked at him. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Well, I’m Veronica,” V chimed in and then patted her stomach, “We’ve got Deandre here.”

Kevin then was introducing himself and the girls, who were covered from head to toe in flour from making cookie dough, when Fiona stepped closer to Ian, bumping shoulders with him to get his attention.

She nodded over to Mickey, who they watched getting bombarded with simultaneous conversations and questions from Amy and Jemma. “New boyfriend? What happened with Owen?” She whispered.

“Owen and I stopped seeing each other a while ago and, no, not boyfriend. Roommate.” Ian rolled his eyes.

“Roommate?” She looked up at him, curiously. “Aren’t you living in a studio apartment?”

“Oh my God…" He ran his thumb across his forehead with a sigh, "Yes, but— Never mind. I’ll explain later.”

Fiona nodded, looking back to the huddle made of the Ball family and Mickey stuck in the middle. He was coasting through everything the kids were saying, nodding and ‘okay’ing as he snuck glances to Ian, who just smiled back. 

“I should probably save him,” Ian chuckled and Fiona chuckled as well.

“Glad you’re here, Ian,” She smiled, rubbing his arm before going back to work on the large turkey sitting on the stove and Ian walked over to the group, tugging at his wrist. 

“Sorry, girls, I’ll have to steal him from you now.” He placed a kiss on the top of each of their heads and turned to Mickey. “We should go put the presents under the tree.”

“Presents? For us?” Jemma asked, excitedly.

“Of course!” Ian replied with exaggerated excitement, “But you know you can’t touch it until tomorrow.” Jemma frowned in reply, causing Ian to laugh. “It’s almost bedtime so the time to open it will come very quickly, though. But, in the meantime, can you make a special cookie for me?”

"Special cookie?"

“Yeah, see how all the other cookies are gingerbread men and Christmas trees?” Jemma nodded. “So, you can make a heart or a square, whatever you want, and I’ll know you made it and it’ll be special. Can you do that?”

“Yeah!”

“Good girl,” Ian laughed and petted her head, glad to get the frown off her face, before looking up at Kev. “Good to see ya, Kev.”

“You too,” He smiled, touching elbows with Ian in a makeshift greeting since his hands were also covered in dough. He nodded his chin towards Mickey, “Nice meeting you, man.”

“You too.” 

Ian waved to V as he and Mickey walked back into the living room. Carl and Liam were now playing video games with each other as Debbie walked downstairs with Frannie walking beside her, hand in hand.

“Oh, hey, Debs,” Ian smiled up at her.

"Hey, Ian," She gave him a tight-lipped smile. Upon reaching the bottom step, Ian reached out for a hug and Debbie reciprocated with a side-hug and Frannie stayed glued to her side. She was a shy child, completely unlike her mother and all the Gallaghers. They all thought she, somehow, genetically got her father's personality. "Frannie, say hi to your Uncle Ian."

Ian bent down to the girl's height, smiling at her, and opened his arms. "Hey, Fran, do I get a hug?" She didn't answer, but she walked into his arms and Ian enclosed her in a hug. She kept her arms at her side; it was something she always did to everyone as if she didn't want to hug anyone. They all accepted it as it was. She'd probably grow out of it.

He stood up, patting her red curls, which had been tied up in two pigtails. "Neil here?"

"Yeah, he's in the bathroom in the kitchen. Speaking of which, I should go check how he's doing."

Ian nodded. "Oh," He started just as soon as she was about to walk away, gesturing to the brunet behind him. "This is Mickey."

"Hey," Debbie gave him a quick smile, picking up Frannie, and headed into the kitchen before Mickey could say a word. Mickey's eyes met his and the redhead smiled a bit before walking towards the entryway.

“So, that little girl was the one you…” Mickey trailed off as they picked up the presents, but Ian knew what he was getting at. With the interactions of his other family members compared to the one with Debbie, it wasn’t hard to tell there were still strains in the relationship, despite how close they used to be. Going months holding a grudge and not talking to a person can do that people.

Ian sighed, juggling the presents in his arms finally. “Yeah… Come on, let’s get this out of the doorway.” 

Without another word, he headed to the Christmas tree the sat in the corner of the room by the window. It was decorated as they usually did—with no rhyme or reason. They got a bunch of lights, some were colorful strands, some were plain white strands, wrapped around the tree carefully enough to spread it evenly around. The tinsel was the same way. It was draped around the tree in attempt to create dips, but because the branches were separated unevenly, there were dips in places where it was not intended and no dips in places where they were supposed to be. Ornaments of red, green, blue, yellow, and silver were hung haphazardly all over the tree. A plastic gold star was placed on the top of the tree, illuminated by the lights just under it. There were an assorted amount of presents under the tree and they all couldn’t fit. The tree itself wasn’t that big, but with an attendance of 14 people, there was bound to be more presents than the allotted space could fit.

“Just put it anywhere you can find space,” Ian said, noticing Mickey looking around for somewhere to place them. He just dropped everything he had in his hand in one spot, not caring they knocked the other presents over or overlapped another. Ian rolled his eyes, standing up after carefully placing his in fitting spots. “Come on, I'll give you a tour in the meantime.”

Ian led Mickey upstairs, reaching the first opened door. “This is Fiona's room.” Mickey peeked into the room. It was plain and hadn't changed in years since she took it over from Frank. A single full-sized bed sat in the middle right under the window. She did add a white and purple patterned bed set to give it her own touch. On the dresser were sheets of papers spread out under and over her jewelry and perfume and lady junk. Her clothes were thrown onto her unmade bed, haphazardly as usual.

Ian began walking again. "Then, we have what used to be Debbie's room. It's now a guest room since she moved in with Neil." Debbie's small room still had inclinations of a teenage girl. There were pink accessories and random objects in certain places, her boyband posters and paintings were still posted on the wall above her twin bed, which still had her yellow and purple paisley-patterned bed covers and throw pillows. Her school certificates for 1st place in her 6th grade science fair and 8th grade perfect attendance were still on the wall by the window, which was still covered with the sheer frilly fabric she used as a makeshift curtain. Her desk top was organized and cleaned off, so it could actually be used now.

"Carl's room, which used to be Lip's room, which used to be Fiona's." The small room still had its full-sized bed in the corner of the room. The wall was covered with posters of girls in bikinis, hiphop artists, and magazine cutouts. His bed was made, something that surprisingly stuck when he came back from junior police academy and never had been the case prior to that. Criminal justice books sat on the small desk across the foot of the bed. 

"Bathroom is here," He continued on and walked towards the room at the end of the hall, "And this is the room where all four of us boys used to sleep. Now, it's all Liam's." The boys' room was the exact same as well. Their old paintings and posted still littered the walls. Ian's old bed was still sat in the corner of the room, Liam's toddler bed that used to sit in the right corner was now gone, Carl's old top bunk was right beside them and their desk/reading corner right underneath the bed. 

"All four? How the hell did you all manage that?" Mickey questioned, incredulously. 

Ian shrugged, walking further in and took a seat on his old bed. "It wasn't too much of a squeeze. We managed. Plus, as Liam got older, Lip was already pretty much out of the house anyway and I was barely at home as a teenager." Ian took him down memory lane, telling him stories about all the posters on the wall until he heard voice coming up the stairs.

"Which one is it?" A feminine voice asked as smaller footsteps ran up the stairs. "Nate, slow down!"

"Second door on your left."

Ian recognized the voices, especially when the boy appeared from the staircase in a second before he disappeared into Carl's room. 

“Hey, Ian,” Sierra smiled, noticing the redhead from the doorway. She walked towards him with a stretched out arm and Ian met her halfway in a hug. He saw Lip walk up with a couple of their bags behind her.

“Hey, Sierra. Hey, Lip,” Ian then hugged his brother.

“’Sup, brother.” Ian felt the nod of a greeting against his shoulders, aimed towards Mickey, "Yo."

“Lip and Sierra, Mickey. Mickey, Lip and Sierra,” Ian introduced and Mickey nodded towards them, arms crossed over his chest again as he leaned against the frame of the bunk bed.

“What happened to Owen?” Lip asked and Ian couldn’t help but smack his palm to his forehead this time. Was Owen really around that much? “What?”

“Owen’s been out of the picture for a while now… But this is _Blue_.”

“Blue?...” Lip tilted his head in confusion and it took a couple seconds for his face to show the realization as it dawned on him. “ _That_ Blue?” Ian nodded and Lip looked Mickey up and down before turning his attention back to Ian. “He got a name now? Memory's back or something?”

“I’m in the room, y’know,” Mickey insisted, “I can speak too.”

Lip looked to Mickey again, “Well, nice to see you up and about, guy.”

Mickey shot him a curled lip and Ian butted in as Sierra just looked between the three guys, clearly not in the loop, so she excused herself to go check on her son. 

“No, his memories aren’t completely back yet.”

Lip nodded, glancing to Mickey again. “Well, I’ll let you guys continue whatever it is you were doing. We’ll talk later.” Ian nodded and Lip picked up their bags, disappearing into his room.

“You been talkin’ about me?” Mickey asked.

“Kinda. Not very much... About some things,” Ian shrugged.

“Like what?”

“It’s not important,” Ian dismissed with a wave of his hand.

“Apparently it is.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mick.” Ian left the room, heading down the back stairs, and Mickey followed behind him.

“Who the fuck’s Owen, anyway? And why do they keep thinking I’m your boyfriend?”

“No reason. You’re quite chatty when no one’s around, y’know that?” Ian couldn’t get him to drop the topic fast enough. Yeah, he’d mentioned his recent exes to Mickey before, but he’d never talked about Owen or why they had parted ways unexpectedly (to everyone else) and that wasn’t a topic he really wanted to bring up with him, the track record of his love life not being the most ideal to many, if not all. 

As soon as they reached the kitchen, now barren with only Fiona and V left in it and the dining table had been removed from its spot. 

“Hey,” Ian draw out his greeting in attempt to remove himself from the curious male behind him, “You guys need any help?”

Fiona hummed in thought, her hands in her back pocket, looking around the room as V took a casserole dish to the other room. “No, I think we’re good… Everything’s done, but you could take the potatoes out to the table.” She picked up the big bowl of mashed potatoes and held it out to Ian. “And, Mickey…you can take the salad out.” She handed the other bowl to an unsuspecting Mickey and patted his shoulder with a grin. “Thanks.”

“Sure…” Mickey groused, following Ian into the other room. Everyone had already taken their seats, in close proximity around the table, chatting to one another. Although it was only 8 adults, 4 kids, and 1 toddler, it sounded like there were 20. It was quite the squeeze with so many people; the table even showed it as it overflowed with empty plates and dishes of food, but squeezing is what the Gallaghers knew and did well. 

The three took their seats—Mickey between Kevin and Debbie, who was carrying Frannie in her lap; Ian across from Mickey, between Liam and Carl; and Fiona, between Carl and Neil.

“Alright, guys,” Fiona start, placing the last dish of rolls on the table, “Dig in!” It didn’t even take a second for the uproar to start once again, one person asking the other to pass something to another, someone fighting to grab a plate first. Ian had automatically jumped in with them, limbs flying all over the place (not to mention food too) and Mickey just sat back and waited, watching the train wreck. It resembled a fucking zoo and he was afraid of his arm getting ripped off in the frenzy if he even tried to stick a hand in there.

Ian noticed as he was scooping mashed potatoes onto his plate. Mickey was looking around, expression full of shock and apprehension. “Grab anything you want, Mick.”

“I will when I’m ready. I ain’t trying to lose a hand here.”

Ian chuckled and scooped a ladle-full of potatoes onto Mickey’s plate in between the hands and dishes moving about in the air. 

One of Mickey’s brow rose, watching with a weird mixture of intrigue and defiance. “I can do it myself, Ian.” 

“Then do it,” Ian replied with a laugh, placing the bowl of mashed potatoes for him to finish taking as much as he wanted, “Before all the food’s gone.”

In ten minutes, everyone had a plate full of food in front of them and the chatter died down a bit now that people started to eat. Fiona went around the table asking how her siblings were doing since the majority of them were out of the house. Debbie mentioned how Frannie had recently learned how to write her own name and they were getting ready to put her in school next year. Lip talked about an engineering project he was working on with the professor for some big company no one at the table had ever heard of. But, then again, they were all pretty clueless of everything having to do with engineering industry as it was. Sierra was taking a couple management classes since she was helping Fiona run Patsy’s now.

Ian was surprised when Fiona got to Mickey; he didn’t expect her to ask him anything at all. Neither did Mickey apparently, since she caught him just putting a forkful of turkey in his mouth.

“So, Mickey. What do you do?”

“What?” He asked with his mouth full. 

“Do you work, or somethin’? Go to school? You don’t look that much older than Ian.”

“Uhm…” He swallowed the food. “No.”

“No? No, what? You’re not workin’ or you don’t go to school?”

“…Neither.”

The table got silent as the two conversed, or in this case Fiona pelted Mickey with questions. Neither he nor Ian had actually planned out a story or anything for when people would ask, so all Ian could do was flick eyes in each of their directions as they talked.

“Neither? Well, Ian said you guys were living together. How do you know each other?”

“Uhm…” Mickey looked to Ian, eyes pleading for help. He felt cornered. 

“Mickey was in an accident a few months ago. He’s staying with me until he’s back on his feet.”

“Oh, an accident? What happened?”

“We’re…we’re not really sure…” Ian stated, as vague as he could be because that story in itself was definitely not dinner talk.

“Oh…” Fiona replied, sensing the same thing, and decided to move on to an equally not the greatest of topics either… “Well, you from around here then?”

“What’s with the twenty questions, man?” Mickey answered, curtly.

“Whoa, hey, just trying to get to know you,” Fiona replied, obviously more offended by the look on her face than her voice let on. “Ian’s never mentioned you once before, so excuse me for trying to get to know his friends or boyfriends or whatever you guys are.”

“I’m not his fuckin’ boyfriend, Jesus; why’s that the first thing that comes out of everyone’s mouths?”

Oh, fuck… “Hey, Mickey,” Ian forced in, putting a hand out in attempt to reel him back in from going off on Fiona for whatever reason, “Calm down. No one’s coming for you, alright? Just a little misunderstanding.” He turned his attention to his older sister, “The accident he was in left him with retrograde amnesia. He didn’t know who he was for months and still kinda doesn’t. We literally just learned his first name from a vague memory he had just a couple weeks ago.”

“Wait…So, technically, you’ve only been ‘living’ for a few months?” Carl asked, using air quotes around the word ‘living’. “What’s that like? Did you have to, like, learn how to walk again, or talk? Like Frannie’s doing now?”

Mickey raised a curious brow to the teen; it was probably the oddest question he’d received by far. Even Ian had never thought to ask him that. “The fu—No? I mean, I had to learn to walk again ‘cause I lost muscle from being in a coma and shit, but I knew how to fuckin’ talk…”

“Whoa, you were in a coma?” Carl asked, eyes wide and even more intrigued by him. “That’s so cool… Do you remember anything from being in a coma? Did you hear people around you and stuff?” Somehow, he was able to dissipate the tension that fell over the table with his child-like, and very Carl-esque, curiosity. It actually pulled the focus towards his answers; even Ian was curious.

Mickey blinked at him before turning to Ian. “I heard Ian’s voice.” 

Ian wasn’t sure why, but just those words were enough to cause a flutter in his chest, so he had to look away with a clear of his throat as the rest of the table had turned to look at him this time, as if he had something to add.

“Gross; sounds like a scene from chick-flick or something,” Carl commented with a grimace, eating a floret of broccoli. 

Ian shrugged, stabbing a piece of his turkey in his plate. “I just read somewhere that talking to coma patients helps them come out of it. It was worth a shot. It worked, apparently.”

The table was silent for a few moments, no one now knowing what else to say until Jemma broke the silence by asking if it was time for the cookies yet. Then, the chatter started up again, Ian and Mickey both staying silent unless spoken to. Carl mostly asked Mickey about his hospital stay and he answered as simply as possible, hoping to move on from the topic, but Carl had a whole list of things to know.

* * *

After dinner, once the table had been cleared off and V and Kevin had taken their kids home with some leftovers, Mickey just learning they lived only two houses down from the Gallaghers, some of the family members had congregated to the living room, bloated from all the food they had demolished.

Ian sat next to Mickey on the couch. He was in the most laid back position as he could get, having thrown his legs onto the coffee table with his feet crossed, scrolling through his phone. The brunet rubbed his forehead with an aggravated sigh as Ian kept spewing nonsense while the other parts of his family were spread about in their own conversations. 

"There's Mikel with a K...how about Miquel with a Q-U? There's, like, 30 different variations of Michael... Do you think it could be 'Michael' just spelled differently or does that not sound familiar to you? Oh! This one is interesting—Mykalos; sounds Greek though... You don't look Greek. Hm, what about Mikhai—"

"Jesus Christ, Ian, _stop_ ," Mickey finally snapped between gritted teeth. "I told you we don't need to keep doing this, _fuck_..." Some wandering eyes fell towards them and Mickey avoided making eye contact, licking his bottom lip. 

Ian was silent for a beat, no doubt taken aback by the sudden reaction. "I'm just trying to help you out, Mickey."

"It's pointless." He rolled his eyes before looking to Ian to keep their conversation between them and not into any wandering ears, although it was a little too late for that. "Do you want to get rid of me that badly? 'Cause you're the one that took me in."

"No, of course not, but—“

"Then can you drop it? It's the holidays; I'd rather not worry about a family that could care less whether I'm alive or dead, alright? That sound good to you?"

Ian pressed his lips in a firm line as if he was actually contemplating to go through with Mickey's request or not. It shouldn't even be something that he needs more thought on. If the only person this had an effect on didn't want to pursue the issue, it shouldn't be pursued. It's that fucking simple.

It seemed like it took Ian a moment to come to terms with it, but he relented. _Thank fuck_...

“Okay, so, the sleeping arrangements,” Fiona started, coming into the living room, “Lip, you guys already got your old room, right?”

“Yup, Sierra and Nate’s already up there.”

“Okay, so Carl, that means you’re going to go back to your old room for now, with Liam.” The two nodded in reply. “Debbie’s gonna be down here with Neil, so Ian and Mickey, you guys can share Debbie’s old room. We still have sleeping bags since it’s only a twin in there, so you guys can decide who wants to take the bed or somethin'. I’ll grab extra blankets and pillows for you. What time are you guys leaving tomorrow, Lip?”

“Sometime in the evening. Sierra's parents are doing dinner.”

“Okay. So, everyone good?” Everyone chimed in with affirmations. “Okay, Gallaghers, break!” She exclaimed, lifting her hand in the air and throwing it down, as if breaking a football team, which isn’t much of a stretch of the imagination. The family was huddled in the living room—some on the couch, two on the arm chair, the rest sitting on the ground in front of the coffee table. It was odd to see a family so large and so...together, especially after the things Ian had told him. Having gone through so much, it must be harder to sever the bond, he guessed. 

The idea felt foreign to him. It made him think back to his last memory, which he decided to ignore for so long. These were siblings in front of him, together through thick and thin, sickness and health, and all that shit. His own family that he seemed to have created didn’t have that same bond. How in the hell does that even happen?

The two headed upstairs, Mickey trailing behind, and entered the guest room. They stared at the twin-sized bed, big enough for one person, but two if they spooned or were sandwiched together. “Okay, I can take the floor and you can have the bed.”

“I’m fine with the floor,” Mickey insisted.

Ian’s expression flattened out as if he wasn’t even going to entertain the idea. “Mickey, you’re a guest. I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor.”

“It’s not my house, so I choose to sleep on the floor.”

“The blankets and stuff are in my hands, so I don’t know why you’re even arguing with me right now.” Ian didn’t even wait for an acknowledgement before he started spreading the blankets on the floor and Mickey just watched him as his mind vaguely processed the gravity of what he was about to suggest. Sleeping on his uncomfortable couch was one thing, but sleeping on the floor was another. At least there was some sort of cushion on the former. Not to mention there was barely any space on this floor as it was.

“We can just share the bed,” he finally said, causing Ian to stop in the middle of fluffing his pillow, before looking up at him.

“What?”

“Well, I mean, neither of us is going to back down and I figure it’s the best option,” Mickey sniffed, swiping a knuckle across his nostrils, eyes fleeting about the room, but never settling on one thing until a thought crossed his mind. “But we’re not sharing pillows, man. Fuck that.”

Ian let out a small laugh, “Well, I’m not going to argue that one.” He stood up and threw the extra pillow onto the bed. “Gonna go brush my teeth; you can pick whichever side you want. I’ll be back.” 

Mickey stepped out of his way in the small room before he left and disappeared around the corner. The extra ten minutes allowed him to further process this situation and he wanted nothing more to do now than to retract his suggestion. There was barely any space on the bed to move around—not like he really moved in his sleep…or was even asleep anyway. He’d spend the next however many hours the guy was asleep staring at his face in attempt not to wake him. Fuck.

“Did you pick a spot yet?” Ian came back in the room, running a washcloth over his face.

Mickey shrugged, rubbing his neck. “It don’t matter to me.”

Ian walked by him, throwing the washcloth onto the desk. “Okay, then I’ll take the left side,” He replied, tugging down his jeans and stepping out of them.

“Whatever.” Mickey stepped out of his own jeans as well, draping it over the foot of the bed, before climbing into it. He backed himself against the wall as much as he could as Ian sat on the edge, swinging his legs over, and laid on his back.

A couple minutes went by, Ian just staring at the ceiling and Mickey not able to do anything but stare at his profile, before Ian turned his head to look at him. More unbearable seconds passed by of Ian just staring and Mickey staring back, confused as to why he was staring in the first goddamn place.

"The fuck you lookin' at?" 

"About figuring out your name thing—“

Mickey groaned, "Ian..."

"I just want you to, y'know, have a family; have your family back."

"And what if I don't want my family back?"

Ian's brows furrowed as he sat up on his elbows. "What do you mean you don't want your family back? Why wouldn't you?"

He breathed out a gust of aggravation. "Remember that thing I said about it being the holidays and wanting a break from it just thirty minutes ago? Yeah, let's go back to that."

"Mick—"

"Okay, since you want to be all intrusive and shit, who's Owen?"

Ian rolled his eyes with a groan as he turned over on his stomach and laid his head atop his folded arms. "Owen doesn't matter."

"Sounds like he's pretty relevant if everyone was expecting him. Ex-boyfriend or do you just bring around random guys or some shit?" He swallowed that lump that was forming in his throat just at the thought.

“No— Mickey, this is not a bedtime conversation. It just wasn't working out; can we leave it at that?"

Mickey shrugged. "You told me about Caleb and what's-his-face, Travis or whatever. There's somethin' I'm missing here or somethin' you're not telling me, and neither of those options I really like."

“Trevor,” Ian corrected with a roll of his eyes, “And if I promise to tell you at some point, will you drop it? For now? I'm tired." Ian closed his eyes for further drive his point and Mickey could tell it was an avoidance tactic, whether he was actually sleepy or not, which only drove his curiosity further. But he shrugged anyway and turned on his back, his turn to stare at the ceiling. It wasn't something he should be worried about.

Like he said, he knew about the other ex-boyfriends, but he’d never mentioned this Owen guy. When Ian had talked about the other ones, he was surprised to find he was actually a bit bothered by the way he talked about what's-his-face, Trenton, or whatever. It seemed like he actually liked the guy enough to reminisce about him. Now that he knew there was another one who he refused to talk about, the amount of uneasiness he felt was much heavier than that time. Why? Why was he so bothered by this, for one, but really, why is this that something Ian kept from him?

Mickey bit the inside of his lips as he mulled this over and turned his head to find Ian in a peaceful sleep. His lips were slightly parted, soft and even breaths escaping them. He was a very easy sleeper. Mickey stayed like that for who knows how long more, growing more and more opposed to being trapped between that warm body and the wall, so he carefully climbed out of the bed. Having taken a few moments to admire Ian's sleeping form, Mickey pulled the comforter over his body, laying it over his shoulders before heading to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how you guys were guessing who will be the one to think they're boyfriends? Surprise, it's everyone! LOL. Next chapter will be more of a hoot, I promise (assuming I get out of this "rut" quick enough -A-)!


	18. Zemansky Ave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Omg, I feel so bad about the length between the last couple chapters. I swear I haven't forgotton about the story. My class had literally taken up my life in the past 2 months and it SUCKS. I had been typing up the chapter bit by bit in the 5 minute breaks I give myself (lbvs) and I'm still not done with it... It's long as hell. I have problems lol SO I've decided to split the chapter again, so that you at least have something to tide you guys over in the wait and I added a little 'excitement' to kick it up a notch as well as in the next chapter. ^^'

The Gallagher house was completely dark, save for the single light livening up the kitchen and lights of the Christmas tree dancing along the walls in mixed hues of yellow, blue, red, green, and white. It would have resemble a club scene had it not been so serene, the utter silence a somewhat added comfort to Mickey as he leaned back in the dining table chair, tipping the warmed mug to his lips. 

It was his third cup of coffee in the past two or three hours, fueling his lack of needed sleep, as the coffee pot sat half-full on its warmer. He had stopped looking at the clock around three in the morning and just basked in the tranquility, which Mickey decided long ago was never actually a good thing. It left him to his thoughts too often, but he didn’t really have much of a choice. He couldn’t distract himself with TV as he usually would since Ian’s younger sister was asleep in the living room with her husband and child. He somehow figured that the shuffling and flashing lights of the TV, despite it being on silent, would wake the kid up. No one likes a cranky kid.

There was something calming about a home in the wintertime. Warm—a stark contrast from the Chicago wind—blanketed in darkness, quiet with only soft sighs and light buzzing of snores floating about the room. It kindled a sense of tranquility; a moment of peace. It wasn't a new construct to Mickey by any means—being alone, left in the dark to himself and his thoughts, that is. He'd felt it in the hospital all those weeks, months; it had felt like an eternity then. 

Dark. He always had the windows shut. The nurses would keep opening them, but he ended up closing them once he got his footing back. It only reminded him that he was floating in the middle of an endless ocean, no sight of land or home for miles.

Alone. Honestly, he preferred it that way for a while.

But it wasn't silent. He would always have the TV on. If not, the steady beeping from the numerous machines in the room, tracking his heart rate, blood oxygen, his breathing, sparked every nerve. Then, add the nurses, doctors, patients, and patients' visitors chatting up a fucking storm outside of his door.  
It was cold, lonely; a feeling Mickey seemed very accustomed to, but soon it seemed like the dial was cranked up ten-fold in all hours of the day until the door swung open at 6:53pm every night. He felt less and less like wading in the ocean of nothingness, the rope on his raft slowly being pulled back to something tangible by muscular, freckled arms.

Here, it was completely different, just like it had been at Ian’s apartment.

Muffled creaks of footsteps from the staircase, where he had just come down 5 hours ago, broke through his daze. He was first met with bare feet and black tights-clad legs before Fiona fully appeared around the corner, hugging her oversized sweater tighter around her body. She gasped, stuttering on the last couple steps upon discovering Mickey at the dining table.

"What're you doin' down here?" She asked, walking over to the counter and noticing the coffee pot filled, the red light indicating it was still warming. She chuckled. "Make yourself at home, why don't ya?" 

"Hey, there's enough in there for everyone else. Get yourself a cup, if ya want," Mickey replied into his mug before taking another warm sip.

"Well, I fuckin' will," Fiona responded with a snort as she pulled the cabinet open, grabbing another mug and helping herself to the coffee. Mickey noticed she drank it as is as well and only huffed, taking another sip himself. "What're you doing up so early, anyway? It's 5 in the morning."

Mickey just shrugged, tattooed fingers circling the rim of his mug. "Couldn't sleep."

Fiona leaned over the counter, cradling her own mug in both hands. "Ah, can't sleep in unfamiliar places?"

He paused before speaking, eyes never leaving his almost empty cup. His whole existence was unfamiliar. "Sure... Why are you up this early?" He asked before she could try digging into that topic as he was apparently so fucking interesting to her, a conundrum she needed to solve or something.

"Getting started on breakfast for everyone. They eat quite a bit. Well, at least I know Carl, Liam, and Lip do. Ian eatin' well too?"

"Three square meals a day," Mickey replied, sarcastically, but truthfully, as he lifted his mug to her in a exaggerated gesture. She nodded anyway.

"He doin' well on his meds too? Oh— Oh, shit," She gasped, throwing a hand to her mouth, her already big brown eyes stretching wide as saucers. "I don't know if he told you about that..."

"Yeah, he told me. He seems fine." Mickey shrugged as if flippant on the subject. 

In actuality, ever since he found out about Ian's disorder, he'd been discreetly making sure the redhead was taking his medication on time every day. Of course, Mickey couldn't do much while he was at work, but at least when they spend breakfast and lunch together, he checks. He had to. According to many websites, Ian had to adhere strictly to the regimen; otherwise, he would fall into either one of the depression or the mania and have to find another mix of dosages if he didn't get back on track. That wasn't going to happen on Mickey's watch. Any slight change in his demeanor had Mickey on edge. Granted, Ian had been doing this for 5 years already, so this was probably like breathing to him now, but Mickey didn't think too hard about that.

"Good..." Fiona nodded, eyes fleeting about the objects that sat on the counter in front of her, as if she wasn't sure how to approach the subject. "We don't see each other very often and I'm a terrible sister who forgets to ask about it, but at least he's doing good." She smiled, setting the mug down and going back into the cabinets, pulling out ingredients and pans for whatever she was about to make. "Gonna have pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Any oppositions? Allergies?"

Mickey shook his head, "Nah."

Fiona nodded and started on breakfast. Mickey just watched her multi-task with all three things. Ian made breakfast the exact same way—starting with bacon first, then preparing the eggs, and the pancake batter being the last thing made. It must have been something he picked up from her, living here for the majority of his life. Just watching her, he could see Ian's antics in her—or, should he say, her antics in _him_ —right down to the concentrated expression on her face to make everything a certain way, a certain texture. Mickey always thought it was stupid as hell—it was fucking pancakes, and how can anyone really fuck up eggs and bacon? Actually, now that he thinks about, you probably can—he preferred Ian's breakfast to the hospital's breakfast.

This was the same thing he did every morning, sit there and watch Ian slave over a hot stove. Watching Fiona wasn't as enticing as watching Ian, however. There was something about Ian he couldn't put a finger on, but he would find himself focusing on every movement the redhead made, every expression; like, he hung onto every word spoken. He must have been around him for way too long.

"Hellooo..." Fiona snapped her fingers toward Mickey, grabbing his attention, "Ya there?"

Mickey blinked, the mug he'd been cradling in his hands now cold. He noticed two large plates of eggs and bacon ready and waiting and another dish stacked high with pancakes, but she was still making more. "What?"

"I was talkin' to you; you were zoned out." Mickey didn't reply, but Fiona continued anyway, sliding more finished pancakes onto the stack. "I was sayin', I know your memory's not fully there, but have you been around this neighborhood before?"

"Before the accident or after...?"

"I don't know. Both, I guess?" She shrugged, scooping more batter onto the pan, "I just— I can't put my finger on it... There's something familiar about you... Like, I don't know why, but I feel like I've seen you somewhere before." As she finished putting the last of the pancakes on the pan, she looked at Mickey with a tilt of her head and a calculating expression.

"Well, once you figure it out, by all means, please fuckin' enlighten me," He replied, downing the rest of the cold coffee and stood up, walking over to the coffee pot again.

"Figure what out?" A voice chimed in. 

Mickey had never had this feeling before until this very moment as he poured himself another cup of coffee. He instantly knew whose voice that belonged to even when it was low and hoarse and he wanted to slap himself for it; he wasn't even going to acknowledge how quick his head whipped in the direction of the voice. 

Ian was coming down the steps, donning loose pajama pants and a plain olive muscle shirt that somehow made his tired eyes look greener than usual. He could tell that Ian hadn't taken a shower yet because his movements were still slow and shoulders slumped, his body not having woken up by the rush of cool water. His features looked softer than his usual ruggedness and the area under his eyes were a bit puffy—a particular sight Mickey found himself enjoying more often than not. And, he also knew Ian's usual morning routine on days off at this point.

"Merry Christmas, sleepyhead," Fiona greeted with a warm smile.

"Merry Christmas, Fi," Ian smiled, digging a finger into the corner of his eyes. "What were you guys talking about?"

His sister shrugged, placing the last of the pancakes on the stack, and picked it up carefully, "Nothin' important. Pancakes, eggs, and bacon for breakfast. Ya hungry?" She asked, walking by him as Ian crossed over to her previous place in front of the stove. He glanced at the plates on the counter before settling on Mickey with a smile.

"Morning."

"Mornin'," Mickey replied, clearing his throat when he realized he hadn't stopped staring, and held up the coffee pot, "Coffee?"

"Of course." Mickey instinctively handed him the cup he was just previously pouring, now filled to the brim. "Thanks," he smiled, taking the cup. Their fingers brushed over each others for a moment and Mickey felt the hairs along his arms stand up. He could have punched himself again when he also felt a jolt in his chest, their eyes lingering on each other for longer than necessary before Ian finally turned to his sister, holding the mug to his lips. "You made a lot of food, Fi."

It seemed like full minutes had passed just previously, but it must have only been seconds because Fiona wasn't fazed by the lack of response to her earlier question. "Well, I do still have growing boys that live here," She laughed, coming over to the counter again to grab the other plates until a tiny voice made its presence known. 

Frannie was standing by the doorway that separated the kitchen and living room. She was dressed in a purple Little Pony onesie and her curly red hair that Mickey last remembered was in a ponytail the night before was now laying over her shoulders, falling gracelessly down her back as her little fist rubbed her eyes mercilessly, sleep still overtaking her small frame as well. The kid must be a wild sleeper. "Auntie Fi, I need to go potty..." 

"Sure, sweet pea," Fiona cooed, going over to her instead and picked up the little girl, no more than three feet, with ease. Juggling the girl on her hip, she turned to the two men, "Can you guys help me set the table while I take her to the bathroom?"

Ian agreed for the both of them and Fiona took the kid upstairs, leaving the two to themselves. Mickey just watched him set down his now half-full cup and walked up to him, essentially trapping him in the corner, flush against the counter. All of Mickey's nerves had lit up in alert, blood circulating through his system quicker than normal as the blunt edges dug into his lower back. Ian was way too close for comfort; closer than they were in bed probably. It was like his presence was suffocating, air becoming Ian's natural scent mixed in with nicotine and faint cologne from the night before. He definitely hadn't showered yet.

"Do you mind?" He asked.

"What?" Mickey felt his reply a little too sudden, too short, and there wasn't anything he could do as soon as it left his mouth.

Ian then pointed behind him, his brilliant green eyes flicking upwards. "I need to get in there."

This only compelled Mickey to turn around, confused as to what could possibly be there. He was the only thing between a wall and the six-foot male in front of him. The twist of his torso seemed to prompt Ian to reach up to the cabinet door and pull it open, revealing the variety of colored and uncolored dishes. _Oh._

Maneuvering his way around the statue that was currently Mickey, he pulled out a handful of dishes and it was then that it clicked to Mickey—he should probably step out of the way.

Suddenly, the dishes were being shoved into his chest with a clatter and a _'The fuck?'_ from the latter. "Set those on the table for 11. I'll get the cups and utensils." Ian stepped to the other cabinet to take out the respective number of cups and utensils.

"Fuck, you could _ask_ a little more nicely."

"My bad," The redhead replied, stacking cups in itself and taking what he could in his hands before looking at Mickey, " _Please_ get your ass moving. Thanks." 

There was a strong urge to knock the teasing grin off Ian's face roiling in his stomach, more so projecting the gesture on the redhead rather than on the person it was originally meant for, but, instead, he cracked his knuckles with his thumb, rolling his neck, and grabbed the remaining plates from the cabinet. It was easier to focus on counting the number of plates he was attempting to juggle than the skin that peeked out around Ian's waist every time he bent at an angle or lifted his arms.

"You're up pretty early," Ian continued as he placed each cup around the table, the clanging of glass to wood the only indication to the assumption, "How did you sleep?"

"Fine," Mickey answered.

"You sure? I think I woke up for like a second and you weren't in bed last night. Did I snore in your face or something?"

Mickey picked up the stack of plates and brought them over to the table. "Like a fuckin' pig." 

He knew that wasn't true. Ian didn't snore, shockingly ever, but the answers just flowed out of his mouth as if he'd rehearsed it many times and who was he to stop it if it would get Ian off his back.

"You should've woken me up then, Mick."

"You were sound asleep; why would I do that?" Mickey continued, paying close and unnecessary attention to how the plates were arranged, how much space was in between each. Was there enough space? Could it fit all 11 people? Well, he made it work anyway. He stood straight, his hands on his hips as he admired his "handiwork", when Ian tried to squeeze between him and the wall behind. It was a tighter squeeze than Mickey had apparently estimated because, even though he was pushed up against the chair as far as he could get, the entire front of Ian's body caressed the entirety of his backside and stunned him still, more so than the previous encounter by the cabinets did.

'Excuse me' was all he said as he continued on with the remaining cups in his hands and went over to the cabinets again to grab utensils. 

Fucking _'excuse me'_? 

Mickey let out a long breath through his nostrils, jaw clamped shut. He was getting too worked up, too easily. Since when did Ian have that kind of effect on him? _Fuck._

As an appreciated distraction, Fiona and Frannie then came down the steps with Carl and Liam in tow, the latter chatting up a storm, excited to see what presents he got today. Debbie appeared into the kitchen with a frantic look on her face, all red and half asleep, her eyes glazed over yet alert. Mickey briefly wondered if she was sleep-walking or something until she spoke. 

“Where's my— Oh my god...” She hurried over to Fiona who had just the same worried expression on her face, seeing her younger sister so worked up. It finally made sense when she grabbing the child from her, hugging her desperately. “Frannie, what the hell!”

“Everything's fine, Debs. She just wanted to use the bathroom. You were asleep,” Fiona supplied, “Crawled out of bed and came into the kitchen.”

“Potty, mommy,” Frannie added as if to make sure her mother believed her. 

Debbie pulled back enough to look her daughter in her big chocolate brown eyes, features firm and steady. “Next time, wake me up, Frannie, don't go off by yourself. Understand?” The little girl nodded, bottom lip jutted out n a pout. She wiggled in Debbie's arms until she was let down when Neil rolled into the room and climbed Neil's legs, settling in his lap.

"Breakfast is ready," Fiona chimed in with a clap of her hands once everyone had settled down and Lip, Sierra, and Nathan walked in behind Neil who then rolled over to empty spot at the table. 

There was so much commotion going on in a very small space, so early in the morning, that it was making Mickey's head spin even when everyone sat down at the table. He was grounded enough to ask if Ian had taken his medication though; the question left his mouth as soon as he thought of it and it was another thing he couldn't take back now. This was an entirely different environment and he couldn't easily check the pill bottles, so he had to ask. Ian had to do a double-take towards Mickey as he walked over to one of the two chairs that sat next to each other, which were the only ones now empty. It wasn't surprising—Mickey never asked before, but Ian answered anyway. He did. Good.

Breakfast mimicked dinner the night before, just as active. Was this an every day thing? Was this how his family were when everyone still lived at home? Mickey ended spending more time people watching than eating and that's when he noticed Frannie staring in his direction. But she wasn't staring at him; she was staring at his half full plate. When she noticed him looking back, it seemed, her big brown eyes met his. She didn't say anything. Just blinked. And blinked.

And he blinked. "What?"

The little girl chewed on her lip as the outer edges of her brows slanted downwards, but again she didn't say anything. Just scratched at her pajama-clad knees.

"What d'you want, kid?"

She puffed her cheeks, brows now furrowing together as looked down at his plate again. He could feel his patience running very thin, sliding right off his shoulders.

"What?" He asked again, his own eyes following the path hers had laid. Something on his plate? He took his fork and poked at his uneaten, crispy-as-fuck bacon strips (he liked the way Ian made it better). "You want this?"

The kid finally nodded. Mickey picked up a strip and broke it half. Kids choke easily, right? He held it out to her, expecting her to grab it from him, but she leaned forward with an opened mouth, barely the size of his fist, and ate it. Mickey blinked again. That wasn’t the route he was expecting her to take. Rational human beings would have taken it with their hands. 

But here she was, munching happily on the strip of bacon. He found her looking back at the his plate again, so he did the same with the next piece and so did she. He wasn’t taken aback this time and he fed her the rest of the strips. She was cute, he guessed.

There could be worst ways he could spend his breakfast time, really. At least this time there weren't any questions asked and that Mickey was grateful for. Well…not towards him anyway.

"Hey, Ian," Fiona started.

"Yeah?" 

"In your elementary school, wasn't there a kid named Mickey too, or somethin'?"

This made both him and Mickey divert their attention from the food in front of them, in record time. 

"What?"

"This is a huge shot in the dark, probably nothing, but I could swear there was a kid a couple years older than you."

Mickey looked at Ian and he could tell he was racking his brain, but drawing blanks.

He shook his head, "I don't..."

Fiona shook her head and waved her hand in dismissal. “Never mind. It was, like, 15 years ago, I could be dreaming it up. I don't know. Thought you would remember."

"I don't know... Weren't there like a thousand kids in the school?"

She shrugged. "Yeah... This Mickey just reminded me of a kid from a long time ago. I was trying to remember why or where, but... Never mind. Could be fishin' for nothin'."

Although she dropped the subject for the rest of breakfast, Mickey didn't. Was that Mickey of that past the same Mickey as the present? He already figured Mickey was a common nickname. According to Ian's name search, 'Mickey' had origins of girls' names as well. He was probably chasing nothing too.

When breakfast ended, the family members full and content, they went their separate ways after Fiona informed everyone that Kevin, Veronica, and the girls were coming over in a few hours for gift exchanges. Ian wanted to take Mickey down memory lane—see if Fiona was onto something. To this, Mickey replied with “Don’t hold your breath,” but it still didn’t shake Ian from the idea. 

That's how he found himself walking down the streets of Back of the Yards for 30 minutes in what could have literally been classified a blizzard. There was already a foot of snow where it hadn't been plowed, which was everywhere except the actual street and more kept coming down in constant tufts. Ian didn't seem to mind as he went on describing his childhood memories and filling in blanks from stories he'd told him in the hospital and, once again, Mickey found himself, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, staring blankly at the white sheet below him as he was carried forth just by the sound of his voice. So, he didn't mind either.

"Oh, this was pretty much our favorite spot when we were younger. We called it the Zemansky Lot."

"Zemansky..." Mickey echoed; the name enough to bring him out of his daze. He picked his head up and he was hanging on to Ian's words for an entirely different reason now.

"Yeah, that's the street we're on. There's a big empty lot at the end of the street that we used to let of fireworks for no real reason, just boredom," He laughed. 

Mickey could have been imagining it, but there was a burning sensation in his chest. Was his breakfast actually giving him heartburn right now? He rubbed at the afflicted area as the name Zemansky sat on his tongue. 

They approached a large lot also sacked with piles and piles of snow.

"When we were younger, we were having way too much fun with the firecracker one day and one went off and broke through one of the houses' windows. The sound that the old woman made was fucking hilarious," Ian laughed. "But we had to do her yardwork for a whole year to 'pay it off'. Didn't even get real money for it..."

Mickey didn't follow. He had checked out as Ian continued further down the street. _Zemansky?_ His eyebrows knitted together as his chest felt tighter. His boots stayed planted into the ground as his head swiveled about as if searching for something. He wasn't sure what. That was when his heart began to beat again his chest wildly.

"Mick?" Mickey didn't know when he had approached him, but Ian was once again beside him. "Mickey, you okay?"

This was it. The stone columns. The tracks. Mickey looked behind Ian and it was so clear now. Save for the snow-covered background, this was it. He had left it behind months ago, never bringing it back up, but it found it's way back to the foreground of his mind.

"Mickey..."

"I've been here before."

"What? Here? Did another memory just come to you?"

Mickey shook his head. A train ran above them, steel tires clanging loudly against the rusting tracks, the space around them flashing between darkness and light. 

"That...dream. From the hospital. It happened here." _Zemansky._

"Are you sure?"

Instead of answering the question, Mickey left the easily walk-able street and a very confused redhead in his wake to trudge through the snow bank to one of the columns. Something pulled him there—something vague and distant, but all too familiar. The stone surface was covered in graffiti—crude drawings and obscene sentiments, half of them barely legible, but one stuck out to him even though it was partially written over and he crouched down. _'MM '_

"Did...did you write that?"

His fingers ran over the fading black ink, scrawled over the uneven surface. He had no context, no real recollection of this, he neither knew why this was here nor could he explain the anger that was building in his chest. "I think so..."

"You lived somewhere around here, or something?"

The fear he felt from the dream, which he was sure now was a memory, came back and mixed in with this building anger and he wasn't sure which he was more upset about—the fact that he was so close to finding himself yet it was still an arm's length away, or the fact that what he did his best to bury all those months ago was back—the worst emotion he'd ever felt by far.

It wasn't until Mickey heard his voice again and felt a hand on his that he realized his jaw had been set so firmly that when he released it he felt the dull ache. And although their hands were both cold, Mickey felt warmth.

"Hey..."

He turned to Ian and, although concern was very apparent on his face, eyes searching Mickey's to pull him back down, one look was enough ease his mind. Just a bit. 

"You're okay."

_You're okay._

"Let's head back, yeah?"

"Yeah..." Mickey nodded and Ian stood, holding his hands out to pull him up. 

Ian didn't run away like that boy did.


	19. 31st & Hamlin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW. I DID IT AGAIN. I’m a horrible person. Like I said in the comments, school was taking over my life and I had no time to write. I had half of this chapter type out and was struggling for a couple months just to get out the last half... Unfortunate. BUT. I’m class-less for three more weeks so I’ll attempt to crank out more chapters but I hope this makes up for the hiatus! 13 whole goddamn pages AND you got a good amount of action this time. Merry Christmas lol

The two made their way back to the house in silence. Sight covered in white upon white, feet crunching the blanket of snow below him and disappearing beneath it; that's all he could focus on. The snowfall was still not letting up and, this time, he wasn't cold. But he wasn't warm either. He was somewhere in the middle, floating between nothingness because nothing else seemed to matter at the moment. Neither did, Dare he say it, Ian too.

He was close. So fucking close. This was a familiar neighborhood. He didn't know where to start, though; he didn't know where to look. Yes, he'd been telling Ian for a while he didn't care what his past was anymore. Since his family had dumped him, or maybe he didn't actually have anyone and he was interpreting his memories incorrectly, the only life he had was with Ian and that was a good placeholder. He was coming to the acceptance that he may never go home. He was getting to be fine with it.

For a long while, he had been. He hadn't been plagued by the 'what if's as much. That is, until now—now that he was here, now that he was in a relevant place.

As they approached the Gallagher home, a cacophony of shouts and laughter broke the silence of the empty streets as well as Mickey's daze. A curious Mickey and an unfazed Ian walked around the corner, into the backyard to find the rest of the Gallaghers and two of the four Balls submersed in an intense game of a snowball fight.

"Kev! You're out!" Veronica yelled from the top of the back steps with one of the twins in her lap and Frannie playing with snow right below them. Debbie sat next to Veronica, eyes glued to her phone.

"What?! What d'you mea— Hey!"

"See, 5 hits, you're out!"

"That was low, V... I'm your husband." Kevin said, sullenly, as he trudged over to them. Veronica only grinned at him as he approached, brushing snow off his shoulders. "Oh, hey, Ian. Mickey. You guys gettin' in on this?"

"Of course," Ian answered with a grin and turned to Mickey, "You in?"

He looked to the flying snow and diving bodies and it didn't take him very long to make a decision. "Yeah, no, I think I'm good..."

"You sure?"

"Pretty fuckin' sure."

Ian shrugged, "Suit yourself...Chicken."

With a roll of his eyes and a smile trying to fight its way through his smirk. "Whatever, Gallagher."

Mickey slumped against the corner panel of the home, watching Ian fall easily into the mix of Gallaghers in the midst of their battle, and he couldn't help the chuckle this time. He and Carl seemed to form strategic allies with each other and found shelter behind the van that sat oddly in the middle of the backyard. A small part of him wondered briefly why it was even there in the first place, but his thoughts were more focused on how much Ian seemed to be enjoying himself.

Having lived with him for several months now, he's experienced his fair share of laughing Ian, but this was different. This Ian seemed a little more carefree, more whimsical. There were fleeting moments throughout the day where he could tell there was a wall between their relationships, but for the most part, the Gallaghers were tight.

Mickey wasn't sure how long he'd been staring, but he then noticed Ian staring back at him and quickly averted his gaze elsewhere with a clear of his throat.

"It's not working," A small voice whined.

Mickey looked down to the toddler who had a defeated expression on her face, her little, gloved hands patting the snow below. Frannie was pushing more and more snow into a clump that only started falling again and a frustrated sigh escaped her lips, a puff of air floating into the sky like smoke. She looked up at her mother and the other two adults for help, but their attentions were elsewhere and so she finally landed on Mickey.

A brow quirked in curiosity. "What?"

"Will you help me?"

"Help with what?"

"Make a snowman."

He felt an urge to deflect the request over to her actual parent, but a cat had gotten a hold of his tongue as her big blue eyes stared up at him and his chest ached for no apparent reason. Did they bond after she ate bacon out of his hands? Maybe she was a vampire and a single look could compel him to do exactly as she asked. Maybe. But, still, he didn't refuse and bent down to help her.

Bare hands and all, he picked up two handfuls of snow, palms almost numb from lack of gloves all morning, and showed her how to roll it into a ball. He coached her through rolling it into a bigger ball, no taller than her knees, and then a second one to ideally form the snowman's torso. He watched her mimic his previous motions in her turn. She seemed to be a pretty quick learner and he couldn't be sure, but there was an elated sensation rolling around in his chest as she formed an uneven ball, waist-high.

"You did good, kid," Mickey offered against himself. Frannie smiled, triumphantly as she patted her misshapen ball.

"'Nother one!" She exclaimed, going back to the ground to pick up more snow. Mickey chuckled, pushing more snow towards her, and they began working on the head of the snowman, him doing more watching that making.

He was in his own little world with Frannie before there was a cold and wet _thwack!_ against the side of his head and the young redhead let out a small, but equally as upset, 'Hey!' as she was splattered by the residuals.

"The fuck?" Mickey hissed, brushing the snow from his hair and inside his ear. He looked up to find the culprit and, of-fucking-course, it was a devilishly grinning Ian who held his hands up in deflection.

"It wasn't me!"

"Yeah, sure." Mickey rolled his eyes before going back to watching Frannie, who was making a ball of a similar size to the second one as opposed to a size that would be better fitting for the head. He wasn't about to tell her otherwise.

Just then, another snowball had gotten him in the arm.

"Ian, what the fuck?!"

"My hand slipped, sorry!"

Nothing seemed remotely apologetic with a grin as wide as his forehead.

"Try that one more fuckin' time..." Mickey warned behind gritted teeth as he brushed the remaining snow off his coat as if that did anything under the falling snow.

"Or what?"

"Try it again if you want to find out."

Ian raised a brow, thin lips in a tight-lipped smile, as he bent down to pick up a handful of snow. "Is that a challenge?"

"Don't you fuckin' dare..."

"Ask and you shall receive," He smiled before chucking the snowball at Mickey, who dodged it just in time.

"You mother—" Mickey scooped up a handful of snow as well and darted for the redhead, who set off running before he could catch him. "Get your ass back 'ere!"

"You asked for it!" Ian laughed, ducking behind his siblings, the van, whatever and whoever he could find. Not having experienced running in this much snow, Mickey found himself much slower than Ian and slipping a couple times on the thin ice. He had to figure out a better tactic since he was already running out of breath...

He stopped abruptly, doubling over his knees as he clutched onto his side. For an added effect, he hissed a curse word and let out an audible groan.

"Oh, stop it," Ian responded, "You're not that great of an actor."

Mickey then held onto whatever he could of the van, propping himself up against it as he groaned again, ignoring Ian's response. He let out a slow breath, the smoke mixing into the air, before a gasp and sharp groan escaped his lips.

It was silent for a beat, the rest of the other Gallaghers ceasing their interactions. Ian was quiet. He just had to hold out for a couple more seconds, despite the heat of embarrassment growing. Ian was breaking; he could feel it.

"Mick?..."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ian take a tentative step. The worry in his voice was almost enough for Mickey to give up, but he couldn't as Ian stepped closer.

"Mickey...are you okay?"

Just a couple more feet.

"Mickey..."

Perfect.

He tackled Ian into the ground, cushioned by the blanket of snow, and straddled his waist, shoving into his face handfuls of snow. Ian sputtered, either from the actual snow or the disbelief that Mickey would do that, or maybe both.

"You bitch!"

"I ain't no bitch," Mickey grinned, struggling against Ian, who was trying to fight him off. "And, you asked for it."

"I can't believe you did that! What the _fuck_!" Somehow, someway, a burst of strength seemed to erupt from him, causing him to flip them over, changing positions and Mickey was fighting against him as he tried to attack him with more snow.

"That's what you get," He laughed, looking up at Ian, whose face was just as red as hair. It was fucking hilarious.

"You fucker," Ian responded, a smile finally breaking through when he punched Mickey in the arm.

"Next time, don't do it again then. Now, get the fuck off me. It's cold as hell."

Ian obliged, much easier than earlier, helping Mickey up. He brushed the snow off himself, shivering as he felt the cold flutters fall down the back of his shirt. Just then did he realize that the rest of the family was still staring at the two. Silent. Right. They weren't and were never alone in this house. He forgot.

"What?" Mickey questioned.

None of them said anything. Just scattered chuckles and shakes of heads before they went back to doing whatever it was they were doing since none of them resumed snowball fights and some went back into the house. How long were they in their own little world that everyone else was done with their snowball fight?

The two looked at each other, Ian responding with a shrug of his shoulders before he started walking towards the home.

"I'm cold. I'm going to go change into something warmer."

Mickey followed suit because that was a good idea. He'd been out here for way too long that he could barely feel his fingers anymore and he was 85% positive they were turning purple. His coat was pretty wet at this point too and it was no longer doing what it was initially purchased for.

As soon as they stepped into the home, Mickey peeled off his jacket, hanging it on one of the coat hooks to dry out. He noticed parts of his sweater were damp as well and he groaned, picking at the wet places that stuck to his skin. "Fuck, Gallagher, you got me good..."

Ian only grinned, stopping on the third step to look back at him. "Come on, I brought an extra hoodie since someone doesn't like to listen to me and pack appropriately."

"Fuck off," Mickey groused, walking towards Ian and right up the stairs, leaving the redhead in his wake. He wasn't at all fazed when he heard Ian laugh and footsteps follow behind him.

* * *

It took an hour for the Gallaghers, Balls, and Mickey to all congregate in the living room again. It was gift-opening time and the kids, specifically the twins, were off the fucking wall. It may be because of the cookies they were going to town on. Mickey couldn't imagine how Kevin and Veronica were able to handle that much of a full house. Actually, he couldn't imagine how Ian's sister handled a house of 4 kids on her own. He was getting a headache just thinking about it.

Thank God for Frannie; the calmest and so far most tolerable toddler he has met yet (not like he's met any other toddler, really). She sat quietly in Debbie's lap next to him.

Fiona walked into the room with a tray of mugs that Mickey didn't care enough to count but assumed it held enough for the number of people in the house. "Alright guys, time for the Gallagher Christmas Cider," She announced, passing around mugs, "And regular juices for the tots."

Ian took two mugs himself and held it out to Mickey, who took it, noticing the warmth of the mug. Warm drinks, exactly what he needed. He could smell the cinnamon easily, hint of orange, but...there was something else to it. With a quizzical expression, he held the mug close to his lips and sniffed the warm liquid. He couldn't tell you why or where or how he recognized the scent, but he did.

"Yeah, it's Bourbon," Ian answered the question he had in his mind, causing Mickey to look at him, quizzical expression never leaving his features.

"Thought you wouldn't let me drink."

Ian shrugged, "You seem to be doing good now, so I figure you can go back to the way you lived; fulfill your urges and whatnot."

"What urges?"

"I don't know. Y'know, whatever. You've been eyeing the beer in our fridge since you got there, so." He replied and Mickey looked down at his cup, letting the aroma take over his senses. "As long as, y'know, those urges don't involve killing someone then—”

Mickey raised his head in record speed, a familiar and unwelcomed image instantly converging to fruition.

"Shit. Sorry—Bad joke. Sorry."

Mickey had nothing to say in counter. No sarcastic remark, no annoyed comment, no heat. He shifted his gaze, lifting the cup to his lips. Swallowing a large gulp of his drink, he immediately recoiled, expression contorted.

" _Holy fuck..._ "

"Yeah..." Ian laughed, "Gallaghers know how to party, for sure. Drink responsibly. Merry Christmas."

Mickey licked his lips, breath already thick with Bourbon. He wasn't entirely positive how quickly he wanted to go through his mug yet.

Carl started moving all the gifts from under the tree and onto the coffee table with his girlfriend Cassie and Liam's help as the rest of the family had gotten comfortable, kids eager to dig into the shit ton of gifts. He watched the presents get passed to the appropriate person and everyone took about 10 minutes because, for some insane reason, they all had to read any card attached and have commentary on their gifts. They joked. They laughed. It was the epitome of a “jolly ol’ time”. The image itself could have been a perfect Hallmark card or some shit.

With the exception of Mickey himself. The glimmer and joy in the Gallaghers’ and Balls’ eyes were not in his. The smiles they all adorned was nowhere to be found on him. It was like he was staring at nothing yet everything at the same time.

It was obvious that he had no recollection of his own Christmases and how those were, so that didn’t bother him anymore—at least today, anyway. It was something else.

Just when he thought he was over it, he felt out of place. He didn’t belong. Not here. Not anywhere. All he wanted to do was to go back to Ian's place. Where everything made sense.

His throat burned with the warmed Gallagher Cider as he took another large gulp, but he didn’t flinch like the first time. This time, he welcomed it. His mug was only half empty, but he contemplated going for another full mug. That wasn’t weird, right?

Placing his hand on the couch to push himself up from the couch, Carl called his name, almost as quizzically as Mickey felt when he heard it.

“What?” Mickey responded, glancing at the second-youngest Gallagher. Was getting another mug as peculiar as he had thought?

Carl didn’t say another word and slid a box, wrapped in red and black plaid paper and carefully tied with a red bow, over to him. He knew the handiwork. He and Ian wrapped enough of the presents they had brought over to the house for Mickey to recognize the way he tied the bow and how he folded the wrapping paper. But, he didn’t see this specific one that day and they spent literally the entire day wrapping gifts.

Mickey just stared at the box and then at Ian, who donned a small smile and that excited glimmer in his eyes that Mickey had come to see every so often. He sat back in his spot, setting down the mug, and accepted the gift. There was a part of him that wanted to carefully remove each strip of scotch tape, unfold the wrapping paper at its creases, and meticulously untie the bow, but he already knew that wasn’t going to be the plan when his hands took over and ripped open the gift in two swipes.

In his hands were six brand new Steven Seagal DVDs, three of which were his newfound favorites, and a small envelope no bigger than his middle finger. This time, he listened to that careful part of him and diligently undid the tape that held the flap down, pulling out the small card. It was plain white. Nothing special about it. No holiday pictures, no gross Hallmark phrases. Just Ian's kindergarten scribbles.

 

 _You don't seem like the mushy type and you would probably give me death glares if I did that, so this is all you get._  
_Merry Christmas, Blue._  
_Ian._  
  
_P.S...Welcome home. :)_

Mickey stared at the card, puzzled. Why write something as random as 'welcome home'? As he flipped the card around to see if there were any more words elaborating on it, which there wasn't, something fell from the envelope and into his lap. Picking it up, he examined it. A small gold key.

It was so informal, a seemingly meaningless gesture to everyone else because, really, who gives keys as Christmas presents? But there was a swelling in Mickey's chest. He couldn't question its existence like before, it was there and it was strong, because, now, he understood. Really understood.

For months, he just felt like he was free-floating in the world. Very little was familiar. He was on edge all the time. Not sure where he was supposed to be. He had been uncomfortable for so fucking long.

_Welcome home._

He wasn't any longer. Ian had opened his heart and home to him and, now, he did have a home. His and Ian’s home. The tiny-ass studio on 31st and Hamlin.

Where everything made sense.

Mickey looked up, blues meeting greens, and there was that same small, soft smile on Ian's lips as if they were frozen in time, as if they were the only ones in the room.

But they weren't and never were in this house.

The rest of the family stared at the two, waiting for Mickey's turn to read the card or some shit? He didn't know, but he wasn't about to read it. They didn't need to hear it. It was his and Ian's alone.

He cleared his throat, slipping the key back in the small envelope and stacked it on top of the rest of DVDs. "They're a bunch of Steven Seagal movies." Thankfully, that seemed to be enough for them because there were scattered nods and murmurs of affirmations and 'Cool's.

"Steven Seagal is so awesome!" Liam exclaimed from his place on the floor, across from the coffee table, as he pulled the stack of DVDs towards him to look at them. Mickey caught himself about to lurch forward before Liam placed the little envelope on the table.

"Liam, what did we talk about?" Ian interjected sternly, but it was obvious he did so in a joking manner, "This is a Van Damme household, kid. Van Damme is holy. Van Damme is life."

"Now, I don't know about all that, Ian," Mickey found himself responding, "I think the kid's on to somethin' here."

"Of course, you'd side with him."

Mickey shrugged, smirking.

"So, is that it?" Fiona asked, looking around the room, all the opened presents cluttering the coffee table and floors. "Everyone went through everything?"

"Yeah, nothing under the tree," Carl replied.

"Sweet! Time to get this party started, Gallagher-style," She grinned, heading over to the radio and turned up the music to what could have honestly been the very last volume setting. She started dancing and V followed suit and then a few others.

Mickey waited for his opportunity to lean over to Ian. "You didn't have to do this, Ian. I didn't get you anything."

Ian just shrugged. "I know. I don't care. I just wanted to. Merry Christmas." His widened smile was enough to send an energized flutter in Mickey's chest. Goddamnit, he wasn't a mushy guy, like Ian wrote. Why was he feeling this way right now? Mickey frowned and sat back, downing the rest of his cider.

Reaching the last drop, he stood up and headed into the kitchen where they were earlier informed the rest of the concoction was. It was a whole fucking stock pot that they made this mix in. Jesus. How fucked up were they trying to get tonight? With a shake of his head, Mickey filled the cup with the submerged ladle and wasted no time in throwing the drink back, which in hindsight was an absolutely terrible fucking idea because the drink had been heating this entire time.

Through his coughing fit, he felt the leg of his sweatpants being tugged on.

"Yeah?" He croaked, looking down at Frannie.

"Can you give me some more juice?" Asked the little redhead.

He looked around the room, hoping it was in sight. An easy reach. But it wasn't. "Where is it?"

She pointed to the fridge. "Apple juice."

Without another word, Mickey walked over to the fridge, rubbing his throat. He pulled out the bottle of Mott's Apple Juice and Frannie was right by his side, holding up her little cup to him. He took it from her and was careful to fill it up to an amount he judged was adequate enough not to spill over as she walked.

"There you go, kid."

"Thank you!" She grinned and held it up to her lips, taking a sip. She was cute...he guessed, patting her curls before he took his own mug from the counter and took a smaller sip this time. Frannie waddled back to him, cup to lips again, and held out her hand towards him. Mickey raised a brow but took her tiny fist anyway, and she wordlessly led him back to the living room as if he had no idea where to go.

He couldn't help the slight chuckle as he followed her out and what a sight he came back to. It looked like a literal party. Fiona was jumping and twisting around like she was in a club setting. Veronica was doing the same—just less spastic, being several months pregnant as it is. Cassie was curled up in Carl's lap as Carl was recording everyone on the 'dance floor', laughing. Kevin was entertained with one of the twins (Mickey still couldn't tell the difference) and Ian had gotten up, taking the other twin with him, and danced with her. Well—dance' was a loose term here. It looked like he was moshing at a rock concert or something.

There was way too much going on in the middle of the room, so Mickey went back into his spot on the couch. He picked Frannie up carefully to place her next to him as well so that she didn't spill the juice he took the time to pour.

After who knows how many hours later, three failed attempts of Ian getting Mickey to get up and dance, and the three-fourths of the cider pot into the night, the party was dying down. Amy sat next to Mickey, eating away at the Christmas cookies that were baked the night before. Gemma was asleep next to Amy against the arm of the couch. Frannie over the last couple hours had found her way into Mickey's lap and laid there, snoring softly. Mickey didn't really have the heart to wake her. Carl had left a bit earlier to take Cassie home, so Liam sat in his spot, immersed in his new Nintendo handheld. The only ones left standing were Fiona and Ian, and Kev and V, who were slow-dancing to O Holy Night. The former had drunk the most, noticeably tipping one way or another and giggling every time they almost fell over.

"Hey," Debbie nudged his arm with her elbow, calling Mickey's attention, "I'm going to take Frannie upstairs to Fiona's room. It's pretty late and I'm not sure how long they're going to be down here."

Mickey nodded, glancing over at Ian, and maneuvered the sleeping body into his arms, but her arms tightened around his leg in her sleep and she snuggled into his stomach. "Um..." He turned to Debbie, not sure what to do at this point. He didn't want to wake her up.

"You gotta force her out of your arms sometimes. She gets a little clingy." With all her baby-caring expertise, she pried Frannie's arms from around Mickey and laid her against her shoulders. The kid really didn't wake up, but Mickey now felt a bit cold. It must have been the baby warmth.

Whispering her goodnight to Neil, she left the living room and now Mickey didn't know what he should do with himself. It was past 3:30 in the morning. He wasn't really sleepy, so he didn't have to head to bed and he wasn't sure if he should, or could, leave Ian down here on his own. Not like it wasn't his own house or anything.

It didn't take him very long to contemplate it because Ian had already locked eyes with him before excusing himself from Fiona, who started swaying to the beat, still going at her cider.

_Oh no._

Mickey shook his head at Ian's approaching steps and lopsided smile that held so much deviousness, "No, Ian. I told you already, I'm not fuckin' dancing."

"But you gotta—gotta have one dance with me, Mickeyyy…” Ian drew out the end of his name in a sort-of whine and Mickey wasn't sure if he was annoyed by it or found it slightly cute. Slightly. Very slight.

"No, I fuckin' don’t." He pulled his hand away from Ian’s grabby ones, smacking his hands away.

“Mickeyyy… Come ooon…” There was that whine again and, nope, it definitely wasn’t cute this time as the redhead’s lips formed a strong pout. The glassy look in Ian’s eyes and his swaying told Mickey he was drunk off his ass enough and was going to be difficult to handle if he continues acting like a fucking child. “One dance and—and I’ll stop asking.”

“No, Ian. I’m tired. You should be heading to bed too. You’re gonna feel this in the morning.”

“I’m fine. Don’t...don’t try to change the subject, Mick.” He warned, feebly, the alcohol stripping Ian of any and all seriousness. Still, he grabbed both Mickey’s hands and pulled. Mickey proved to be stronger and only ended up with Ian tripping over himself onto the couch and half into Mickey, face cradled in the crook of Mickey’s neck. This was apparently quite fucking hilarious to him as he started giggling like a fucking schoolgirl, warm lips tickling his skin.

“Alright, it’s time for bed.” He pushed Ian off him to stand up in attempt to save his composure before tugging on Ian’s shirt. “Come on, princess.”

“But I’m not sleepyyyy...”

“Yeah, well. You’re gonna get sleepy. Come on.” He slid an arm around Ian’s torso and picked him up to his feet despite all the protests that were thrown his way. Ian was much heavier than he had anticipated and the thick muscles underneath his fingertips was every indication of that, in addition to the weight leaning against him.

The redhead was quickly subdued somehow as he rested his head on Mickey's shoulder, faced tucked away in his neck again.

Mickey tried to focus more on the number of steps he needed to take to reach the stairs in front of them and how exactly he would get Ian up the stairs into their room and less on Ian's warm breath on his skin, less on how firm his obliques were yet soft and supple at the same time, less on how much the scent of cinnamon permeated off of him and, especially, less on the fact that all he wanted to do was stay as close for the rest of the night and just inhale.

"Where...where are we going?" Ian murmured.

"Bedroom."

"Bedroom..." He picked his head up to look at Mickey...or something of that nature as his head could barely stay straight, "Mm...You're not...going to take advantage of me, are you?"

"What the fuck?" He swatted the hand Ian used to poke his cheek, a little too hard, away—he was too close. He lifted Ian up a bit with a grunt, feeling him slipping out of his hold. "No, Ian. We're going to sleep."

"Because I wouldn't mind if...if you did, y'know..." Ian pressed further into him and Mickey almost lost his footing on the step. That was more because of the added strength and not because of the effect of heat rising up his neck, causing a twinge in his nose as the image struck his mind in a second. Not Ian's bare chest against his. Not his fingers bunched in tufts of red. Not their breaths mingling with each other's, swallowing all the noises he could imagine Ian making. Not at all. Really.

"Shut up, Ian."

Just a few more steps. A few more steps and he could throw Ian into bed and attempt to forget everything coming out of his mouth.

Suddenly, a cold hand trailed under his sweater and up his chest as soon as he reached the doorknob and he thought he could ignore Ian's approaches until he felt the breach of his drawstring sweatpants.

"Ian, fucking _stop_." He immediately grabbed hold of Ian's straying hand, holding it behind Ian's back, which forced him to be pressed up against Mickey. "Don't do shit you're gonna regret tomorrow. Now, get the fuck in bed."

He pushed the door open and walked Ian over to the bed, weaving around the cramped furniture, but, of course, he couldn't see where he was going exactly and stubbed his toe on one of the bed's legs, falling onto the bed with a string of curses.

Ian, having been held against Micky's frontside, went down with him, their foreheads bumping into each other's, and he gasped when he realized Mickey was hurt. "Oh, no, are you okay?" He ran his hands through Mickey's hair, parting it, searching for bumps or bruises. Mickey shook his head in attempt to get Ian to let go, but that only made him search more.

"I'm fine," Mickey said, slapping his hands away, but Ian wouldn't quit. With a low growl, he took both hands in his, holding them in place. " _Stop_."

And Ian immediately did, eyes wide and scared, and Mickey instantly felt terrible about himself. "Sorry..." He frowned, noticing the reddened area on the side of his forehead, and lifted his hand to brush his hair back, inspecting it further. He lightly pressed it, resulting in a strong hiss from the redhead below him. Their eyes locked onto the other, Ian's no longer scared, but resting in place and innocent, curious.

There was something about the isolation and silence that caused his attention to switch from getting Ian ready for bed to being completely trapped in this position. That and he was exhausted from today's events. That was the only reason why he didn't move when Ian's hand slid out of his and onto his cheek. That was the only reason why he didn't move when his thumb traced over his bottom lip. That was the only reason why he didn't move when Ian lifted his head haltingly until their lips brushed against each other.

That and he didn't know what else to do. His body reacted for him, half his mind preoccupied with staying upright and the other half struck by how soft and warm his lips were and how many splits he could count with his tongue along those chapped lips. There was no additional capacity for anything else.

An enticing sensation rolled through his body when he felt a moist warmness slip in between his lips and it felt like an instinct when Mickey parted them allowing Ian deepen the kiss. His head was screaming. It felt like tiny fists of neurons going at his brain like a room of drunken bastards wailing at each other for no reason. He wasn't hungover and probably wouldn't even be close to it by morning light.

Even if he wanted to pull away, he was powerless to Ian's thighs taking hold of his waist, pulling him flush against his body.

_Fuck..._

Mickey had felt Ian's skin against his many times in playful punches, plenty of nipple twists that Ian was always dutifully paid back for, the occasional brushes in tight spaces, like this morning. But this was different. His skin burned where Ian's fingertips brushed. They were warm in the confines of Debbie's old room, but Ian's hands felt ice cold against his cheek. He had plenty of space where his lungs were fully inflating and deflating, but he felt so entrapped as if he could barely breathe.

Mickey hated being his close to him. All his senses were filled with Ian, only Ian. That was all he saw—pools of green, spots of red. All he smelled—cinnamon and cologne. All he heard. All he felt. The goosebumps on Ian's arms were prominent against his fingertips. The cider on Ian's tongue was strong, sweet, every bump and ridge coarse against his own. He was so sure it was possible to get second-hand drunk because—fuck—did it feel like it, and he almost wished he was when he found himself guiding Ian's tongue further into his own mouth.

Ian nipped at Mickey, in a sort-of attempt to swallow him whole and an unlit match in Mickey ignited like a sudden flame. Teeth began to clash as Ian swung a leg over Mickey and had him on his back, gripping the neckline of his sweater to pull him closer. It wasn't as smooth and fluid as one would hope moments like these would be—nowhere near it. It was wet, sloppy, uncoordinated, yet Mickey craved more.

With his own force, Mickey rolled them back over, lips barely having any moment of rest. He felt Ian's weight push against him, trying to go back to their previous position, but Mickey wasn't having it. His hands grasped Ian's own, holding them firmly against the mattress, and he bit down on Ian's bottom lip. A soft moan just barely made itself known between the rushing sounds in Mickey's ear. But he heard it and it instantly sent a wave from his head all the way down to his groin.

He pulled back in desperate need of air this time, Ian chasing his lips not yet ready to disconnect, but their foreheads stayed pressed against the other, neither really in the right mind to move any further than their waists were connected as Ian continued moving against him. His waist swayed and rolled in ways Mickey never imagined was even possible.

_'You're not going to take advantage of me, are you?'_

He forced himself to pull back completely and, once again, Ian tried going back, but Mickey turned his head causing Ian's lips to make contact with his cheek instead. It was too much. It was all too much.

When Ian had stopped his unlawful movements of his hips, curious as to why he lost all connection to him, Mickey turned his head to meet Ian's own confused ones. His green eyes were darkened and somewhat glazed over, possibly due to the alcohol, freckles contrasting against his tinted cheeks, lips swollen and red and glistening and slightly parted to catch his breath.

He did that.

And it took quite a bit of him not to go back and do it again.

"What, what's wrong?"

"You should go to sleep."

"What? Why?"

"You're drunk as hell."

"No, I'm not," He shook his head and tried to pull Mickey back down to continue unfinished business, but Mickey put a hand to his chest, keeping him at elbow's length.

"No, Ian. Sleep it off."

"Mickey—"

Mickey sighed and ran his hand through his hair, knowing full well Ian wouldn't give up. He wasn't really sure if he was going to regret the next thing that came out of his mouth, condemning him to a promise he wasn't entirely certain he could keep, especially if he stopped now, but he couldn't find it in himself to be any sterner in that moment.

"Just— Go to sleep, okay? If you're still in the mood in the morning or whatever, maybe we can continue... Alright?"

Ian just looked at Mickey, skeptically, because even he, completely intoxicated, had to doubt his words the same way Mickey did, but he eventually relented, rolling out from under him into Mickey's spot from night before.

"You gonna go now?"

"Go where?"

Ian shrugged and shifted onto his side, looking up at him. "Downstairs, or something. Wherever you went last night."

Mickey stayed silent, not entirely sure how to answer that because, one, Ian was starting to sound less and less drunk as time passed and he wondered if Ian was even remotely drunk in the first place; and two, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the carpeted floor. He wasn't really intending to go anywhere, not consciously anyway, but maybe his body spoke more than his mouth did.

A lot more.

"Okay," Ian said, voice barely louder than a whisper, and got under the covers without another word. It held a sense of finality that caused Mickey to feel something similar to his heart physically dropping into the pit of his stomach, and it kept his feet rooted to the ground as he watched Ian close his eyes.

This was a line neither of them crossed before and one that was never even brought up in conversation. Ever. And it didn't need to be. The skepticism Ian held in his expression earlier mimicked the same that Mickey felt; he doubted this was something Ian wanted even if he was in his right mind, so he wasn't going to bring up the subject. He probably just gets revved up when intoxicated and has no control whatsoever.

Yet, Mickey found himself picking his feet back up and slipping them underneath the covers as well. The tussle of Mickey's weight on the mattress prompted Ian to open his eyes again, believing Mickey had stood to leave, but instead he was met with those clear blue eyes and they just stared at each other. No one moved this time. No words were spoken. There weren't any words to be said, really.

Ian closed his eyes once again, but they didn't open this time as the alcohol-induced slumber took over.

And Mickey eventually lost track of the seconds, minutes, hours that passed until his eyes finally fell shut as well.


	20. A Little Bit Longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at that. Another chapter in less than 10 days. :D I told you I didn't give up on you guys!  
> ...Can we also appreciate the fact the title ended up being a Jonas Brother's song, not on purpose (disclaimer: I have a 10 year obsession with the Jonas Brothers, esp Nick Jonas) OuO

_Fucking hell..._

Bright light shone through Ian's eyelids, sending abhorrent signals into his brain. His head was pounding something fierce and it guiding him begrudgingly into wakefulness, but the last thing he wanted to do was move. It was like his head was on the end of a stick and a few months old infant was going at the head rattle.

Jesus fucking Christ, this was terrible. It needed to stop. What the fuck was he doing last night?

Ian groaned slightly, moving his head in a way he thought would dull the pain. Hell no, it didn't work. But his nose tickled. Tickled? Why would it tickle? He scrunched his nose, moving his head again to get whatever article of clothing was in his face. But it didn't move. What?

He lifted his hand to his nose to wipe it away, but—wait. Was that hair? His hair? His eyebrows knitted together in thought and he really didn't want to open his eyes and have the sun blind him just as it was doing now behind closed eyes. Goddamnit... He pried one eye open, only able to get it halfway, but it was black. All black. What?

He forced the other one open, slowly, and, fuck, the sun was right on his face. Lifting his free hand to rub his eyes, his senses finally decided to kick in. That was when he realized the headache was ten times worse than he had thought and the scent was different. It smelled of his Old Spice shampoo, but there was something else mixed in; something that wasn't of his own body.

Fuck, who did he get in bed with this time?

Squinting, he lifted his head slightly to view his surroundings. Familiar. Lace. Paisley pattern on the blanket. Drawings on the wall. Debbie's room?

Right. Christmas. Dancing. Drinking.

That Gallagher cider really fucked him up good. Jesus. He massaged his temples with the one free hand as he leaned over the body that was currently laying on his arm, cutting off circulation. His eyes almost popped right out of his eye sockets upon two realizations:

One, the body leaning against his was Mickey's. Mickey.

Two, Mickey was asleep.

The brunet was sound asleep. Dark lashes splayed along his pale cheeks. Lips oddly very red, somewhat swollen, and parted slightly. He was breathing softly and evenly, the biggest indication he was actually asleep, and, dammit, was he beautiful.

Not that he wasn't always appealing to Ian, but there was just something about him when asleep. He seemed so innocent. So vulnerable. So content. He was at a place where he was truly okay. A stark difference than when he was awake, or even fake-sleeping.

It wasn't a well-kept secret that Mickey hadn't been sleeping very much over the past few months, if even at all. Ian stopped saying anything about it because Mickey would get pissed off and shut him out. Ian hated when he did that. At this point, he could tell the difference between snippy, pissed Mickey and snippy, neutral Mickey even though it looked the same to everyone else. When it was snippy, pissed Mickey, it felt like the whole world was crashing down on Ian. Like the Earth's foundation was literally being pulled right from under his feet and he felt so alone. Like a part of him was missing.

He wasn't entirely sure when Mickey had this much of an effect on him, when Mickey welded enough power to take Ian's heart by the fist and fuck him up in every way possible by the slightest touch, when Mickey became his whole world. But he did and that feeling was there. He was powerless to it.

Ian did his best not to let it get that far, but how the hell did they end up in bed together now? He searched the contents of his memories, digging for any recollection of the previous night and he couldn't grasp a single thing for too long. There were bits of pieces of scenes: giving Mickey his gift—the look on his face was probably everything he could ask for; that was something he could never and would never want to forget. Gallagher cider, and how much that fucked him over. He asked for a dance from Mickey once, which in hindsight was possibly the stupidest thing he had done to this day. Of course, Mickey wouldn't dance with him. There wasn't the slightest chance in the world. And, after that...he couldn't remember much. It was way too fuzzy, but he could at least deduce that nothing happened between them. His clothes were on. He didn't feel any kind of way except this monster headache. Maybe all they really did was sleep.

Whatever be the case, this was probably the closest they've ever gotten and Ian wanted nothing more than to lay where he was, knowing full well if Mickey woke up this wouldn't happen again. Nowhere near it. So, crippling headache or not, he was going to stay exactly where he was.

Laying his head back onto the pillow, Ian circled arms around Mickey's waist, careful not to wake him, and nuzzled his nose deep in the crevice where Mickey's head met the pillow below them. Ian inhaled deeply, making sure to catalog every piece of this moment, every scent, every sensation. It filled him with such an elation that it was enough to outweigh the throbbing pain and a fleeting thought entered his mind as quickly as it was disregarded because, why would that even be the case?

_Is this love...?_

He let his lips graze the exposed skin on the back of Mickey's neck and immediately stopped in place when he felt Mickey shiver and stir. Shit. Ian kept his eyes closed when he felt more movement in the bed and then a sudden shift, a jolt. The pillow shifted just as quickly and Ian wanted nothing but to wrap his arms tighter around Mickey. Something must have forced Mickey awake and he doubted it was his doing.

He felt Mickey lift his arm. Then, came the weight of Mickey's shoulder pushing against his chest slightly. Was Mickey looking directly at him? Ian didn't move. He couldn't. He pretended to stay asleep, struggling not to cause a single flutter to even his eyebrows. He couldn't risk it.

Moments of still silence passed until Mickey settled and it took all the power in Ian not to take a mile. Mickey had settled back into him, all soft and warm. He had to be awake this time. The evenness of his breathing changed, but their bodies molded into one underneath the covers and Ian wished they never moved. He hoped Mickey couldn't feel the acceleration of his heartbeat because it was moving a mile a fucking minute.

But it felt so short-lived, this closeness, and Ian fought to pick his heart back up from his stomach. Mickey had wrapped his hand around Ian's and Ian could have sworn it lingered there a moment too long before his hand was moved to his side. Suddenly, he was cold. The old wooden frame cried and the other weight pushing down on the mattress was gone. Ian had to swallow his doleful sigh when he heard the door open and then shut softly. It was then an uncomfortable stillness.

He opened his eyes when he was certain the coast was clear, hoping he was wrong. But, he wasn't. Mickey had left the room. Great.

Ian rolled onto his back, running his fingers through his hair, as he dug into his Mickey database again and brought back the sensations he just experienced, holding onto it for just a bit longer.

* * *

Once he had collected himself, he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and completely regretting every movement as the room swung right with him. He slumped over his knees, cradling his poor head desperately. Fuck, he really got wasted last night and he was sure he didn't drink that much. Fucking meds.

With a sigh, he forced himself off the bed, rubbing his eye sockets heavily in an attempt to pull the headache right out, but it wasn't working. So, he left the room and crept down the stairs on the hunt for ibuprofen and water.

Yet another action he regretted. He walked right into what must have been an alternate universe of torture because Mickey was hunched over the counter, blending some sort of mixture. The shrill sound felt 10 decibels louder. Like the sensation you get at the dentist when they're drilling a hole in your tooth without novocaine. Jesus fucking Christ; it was making his actual brain bleed...

He couldn't make out what the concoction was, but there was an assortment of vegetables, spices, and liquids littering the space around him and in the blender was a very unattractive color.

"Mickey," Ian abruptly stopped in place. His voice was much more hoarse and raw than he remembered it ever being. He was surprised that sound even came out of his mouth in the first place. With a clear of his throat, he continued, despite himself, but it wasn't any better. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Morning, sunshine." Mickey didn't look up from the blender, but his own voice held a tinge of pure amusement. Ian was sure he was probably talking at a volume just over the blender so he could hear him, but it seemed another 30 decibels louder than what should be normal.

"Jesus, fuck..." Ian hissed, rubbing his temples. "Can we cut it out? My head is about to fucking explode."

Mickey obliged without a smart-ass comment and grabbed a mug from the dish rack that sat next to the sink. "You're lucky it's done anyway."

"Thank you," Ian sighed, taking a seat at the island.

Mickey chuckled, pouring the drink into the mug. "It's your fuckin' fault you drank so much. No one made you do it." He held the mug out to Ian. "Drink this. It'll help."

Ian eyed the drink before taking it from him. "What is it...?"

"A hangover cure."

"Hangover cure? Did you google this or something?" Ian looked into the mug and it just looked thick. Holding it under his nose, he took a sniff and immediately recoiled. "What the _fuck_ , Mickey?! It smells fucking awful!"

"Yeah, but you're gonna feel better in no time."

Ian gagged slightly, pinching his nose. "How the hell do you even know this?"

Mickey shrugged. "I guess it's muscle memory or somethin', I don't fuckin' know. Just drink it and quit yammerin'."

Ian rolled his eyes and braced himself for the absolute worst. He was afraid of what this drink would even taste like, but Mickey was right. He really did want this headache to go away. So, he took a deep breath and held it there before throwing back as much as he could in one go.

He almost retched all over the counter. Jesus, it was as thick as it looked and literally tasted like it smelled. He could have sworn it just sat there in the back of his throat before it actually made its way down. What the hell was even in there?

Mickey seemed to find this completely entertaining as he stood there just watching, laughing, as Ian was awaiting his deathbed.

" _Fuck..._ " Ian groaned, sick to his stomach.

"You need to finish it," Mickey instructed, grabbing another mug and filling it with water from the sink. He miraculously pulled out the bottle of Advil from the corner cabinet and shook out two pills, placing them on the surface in front of Ian.

"Thanks..."

Mickey just nodded.

"How did you even know where the Advil was?" Asked Ian before he tossed back the Advil and washed it down with the water.

"I had a lotta time on my hands."

Ian hummed in reply, questioning how long he was upstairs staring at the ceiling. "So...what happened last night?" He asked, taking another hesitant gulp of Mickey's homemade headache cure.

"What d'you mean?"

"I can't remember much after the presents. I remember asking you to dance—sorry, by the way... That was dumb. And then you denied me, but...I can't remember much after that..."

A perfectly sculpted eyebrow or two of Mickey's raised and he crossed his arms over his chest, resting there. "Nothing?"

Ian shook his head, eyes unmoving from Mickey. "Did I do anything embarrassing?" And Mickey's chuckle scared Ian. What did he do? Ian groaned. "Please tell me I didn't do something too bad..."

"I figured you wouldn't remember..." Mickey replied, not actually answering his question as he took the blender apart to place it in the sink. Ian wasn't entirely sure because it was only a split second, but even though Mickey was smiling in spite of himself and whatever situation occurred, it wasn't full. His voice wasn't even as nonchalant or snippy, which Ian was half-expecting. What the hell happened?

"Mick, what'd I do?"

Mickey shook his head, back facing him. "Nothing. It's not your fault anyway." Ian barely heard him over the rushing water and then it was off, but it in no way did it appease him. If anything, it only built on his anxiety. What did he do? What did he say? Did he ruin everything they built in the last few hours?

"Mickey—" Before Ian could even offer a retort, a groan cut him off. Fiona came down the stairs looking just as bad as Ian felt, and probably looked, running her fingers through her hair. "What the hell happened here?" Her voice was also just as rough. "Looks like a tornado went through here."

Neither guy offered her an answer, but Mickey slid a mug over to her too. Was he giving her the same gross drink? She picked it up with both hands and inhaled deeply, Ian watching the smoke flow up her nostrils, but she didn't flinch as Ian had done earlier.

"Ah, coffee... Just what I needed. Thanks."

Mickey nodded in reply, putting away the ingredients he had used earlier, and Ian was just confused by this whole situation, looking back and forth between the two. Since when did Mickey get so comfortable in the Gallagher home?

It was oddly heart-warming, which only made Ian stress out more about what exactly "wasn't his fault".

The room fell silent as Fiona continued to drink her coffee, looking to Ian and then Mickey—rinse and repeat—over the rim of the mug, while Mickey was cluttering and clanging to his self. It didn't seem like anyone was going to say any more and it was making Ian itch; the type of itch that you can't scratch.

He placed mug back onto the counter before pushing his weight off the stool. "I'm...going to go shower now..."

Fiona hummed as an idea popped into her head, putting down her coffee, "I'll get started on breakfast. Well— I guess it's technically lunch time now... Leftovers?" She looked to the two for confirmation. Mickey shrugged.

"Sure," Ian replied before heading upstairs. He spent all of twenty minutes underneath the stream of hot water when he only actually showered for ten of those minutes. The other half was spent trying to bring about the events from last night, the events that alcohol stripped him of, as he let the water drench over him like some sort of therapeutic meditation method, so that he could think clearly. But, he came up with nothing more than what he had when he woke up.

With a sigh, he turned off the water, the knob squeaking in delight, and ran his fingers through his hair, squeezing out the excess water. He pushed back the plastic curtain and pulled a towel from the towel rack, wrapping it around his waist as he stepped out of the tub and over to the sink. He wiped the mirror clean of condensation with one quick swipe of his forearm, glancing at his reflection.

Oh God. The deep set circles under his eyes were no fucking joke. He leaned into the mirror and pressed his fingers into them. Is that what you're supposed to do? Ian frowned in thought, but continued anyway. Wait. There was a darker purple spot on his forehead, just above his eyebrow. Where did that come from? Bending further over the sink, he brushed the pads of his fingers over it and added pressure into the area.

" _Fuck..._ " Ian hissed.

What the hell did he do to himself? That's it. He's not drinking for another three years... Okay, maybe two... Or one. Moderation is what matters really. With a shake of his head, he pushed off the sink and exited the room. Passing the stairs that led down to the kitchen, he unconsciously activated his nonexistent super-sonic hearing, listening carefully for what was going on down there. Was Mickey still down there with Fiona? He didn't really hear much besides the beeping of the microwave and clanging of dishes. If he was, though, what were they talking about? Was there even any talking going on? Did Fiona know what kind of fuckery he got himself into with Mickey?

He let out a soft groan, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm, and hissed a curse again when he rubbed right into the bruise. Just when he thought his day was going to start off great... Letting go of one more sigh, he gripped the doorknob of Debbie's old room and pushed the door wide open, barreling right in. Right in to a frozen Mickey in the midst of slipping on what Ian assumed was fresh boxers and Ian just stood there, staring, basking in all of Mickey's bare glory. It felt like he was standing there for hours, what passed being only seconds.

"Ian, what the hell?!" Exclaimed Mickey, hurriedly completing the briefly abandoned task and bringing his boxers around his hips. "Ever heard of fuckin' knocking?"

"Sor—sorry," Ian breathed, unmoving, plastered against the shut door behind him; Mickey slipping on his pants in record speed before reaching for a shirt.

"You're really just going to stand there?" Questioned Mickey, as he threw a sweater over his head, shoving his arms through each sleeve.

Ian stuttered, his brain not able to multitask with the image of a naked Mickey engraved into his mind. Sure, he's seen Mickey in his birthday suit many times before, but he was unconscious at the time and it was almost a year ago. It didn't really have the same effect back then as it did now, now that Mickey was up and able, now that he'd already come to the conclusion that he'd fallen for the guy. Hard.

He cleared his throat, collecting himself, "Yeah, um. I mean—no, I'm going to get dressed now." He narrowed his focus on to his duffel bag and walked over to it, bending down to dig for his clothes. It wasn't hard to keep his mind on that task. It was like he had tunnel vision and all he could see was the contents of his bag as he pointedly decided what to wear today (not like he had much else to choose from). The blood splitting between rushing up his neck, filling his cheeks with heat, scrambling his brain, and draining below, pooling in his groin, was enough block any and every sensory stimulant. That is, until he felt a sharp jab in his calf.

"W-What?" Ian followed the source of the pain to Mickey's foot, up his leg, until he settled on his eyes.

"I asked how's your headache?"

Headache?

Oh. Right.

Ian placed his hand lightly against his forehead. Headache. He completely forgot about it. It was much duller than when he woke up, so much more that he wasn't entirely sure if the residual throbbing was from the headache or from abusing the bruise on his forehead just moments ago. Mickey's magical hangover remedy was working, which was one positive he could take away from all this.

"Oh, it's—it's better. Thanks."

Mickey hummed, brows furrowed together, and crouched down to Ian's eye level. He was no longer looking Ian directly in the eyes as the latter stared right at him. He was close. Too close. Only inches away.

Ian's eyes followed Mickey's hand reaching out until it sat on the crown of his head, hair still damp, but Mickey didn't seem to mind. He settled back on Mickey, who was looking concentrated. Very concentrated. And suddenly an image emerged in his mind. Mickey just as close like now, but Ian could see the popcorn ceiling and cracked ceiling lamp behind his head. And then...

His eyes widened upon realization as he was slowly able to piece together events of last night. Mickey's hand on his head. Mickey's eyes closing. Mickey's lips on his. Mickey biting down on _his_ lips. He and Mickey rolling around in bed. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey.

Ian couldn't help the immediate flinch when Mickey grazed over the bruise with his thumb.

"Ow..."

"Sorry," Mickey muttered.

_Sorry..._

Holy shit...

He made out with Mickey. For who really knows how long. Length of time didn't even matter. What matters is his lips were attached to Mickey's for even a second. And Mickey _reciprocated_. Holy fucking shit. _That's_ how he got in bed with him? _That's_ why he had his arms wrapped around him?

"I don't know how I got that bruise..." Ian spoke, "Do you?"

Mickey stayed silent and Ian waited. He had no problem waiting. He wanted to hear what Mickey would say. Would he tell him?

"No." Mickey stood up, straightening out his jeans. “Ran into a door or somethin’, I guess?”

"You sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be? You would know better than me, with your drunk ass?"

"Actually, yes," Ian replied, standing up.

"What?"

"You kissed me."

Mickey blinked taken aback by the sudden confession. ”Hold the fuck up,” His voice was much harsher, much sharper than he probably intended, which only made Ian believe more of what he had told Mickey, even though he saw it clearly. Okay, maybe it was kind of fuzzy; just a bit, but enough to conclude that it did happened. “Get your story straight—you kissed _me_."

"But you kissed me _back_ ," Ian countered, stepping closer to him. He held his gaze with Mickey's even though the latter had tried to break it but didn't move away. Mickey stood his ground because, Ian knew, he wasn't going to back down and lose this challenge. That’s the kind of person Mickey was. But, Ian wasn't going to back down either from this little sliver of hope he held on to. "And you promised we would continue in the morning."

Mickey's eyes widened and Ian was dead sure of everything that happened now. No way of denying it. "I only said that to get you to go to sleep and, guess what, it fuckin' worked. Now, back the fuck off me." He shoved Ian out of his personal space and Ian stumbled back a couple steps.

"Mickey, there's nothing wrong with it," He replied, taking another step forward. "It isn't something I regretted and...what I said on the staircase...yes, I was intoxicated, but it wasn't a lie."

"Shut the fuck up, Ian. I am not having this conversation." He turned on his heel and trudged over to the door, but Ian grabbed his wrist as Mickey grabbed a hold of the doorknob. Maybe he just needed the push. Maybe he just needed the okay.

"Mickey, I _like_ you..."

Silence filled the room. No one moved. Ian awaited Mickey's response with his entire heart as he still braced himself for possible disappointment. He hadn't felt anything for anyone this strongly before and he has had his fair share of "relationships" over the years. No one even came close.

"Put your clothes on," Mickey finally said. He pulled his hand out of Ian's grasp and left the room without another word, without a single glance back.

* * *

Ian didn't chase after him. He didn't think he should or at least he didn't know if she should. He couldn't deny that Mickey didn't feel some kind of way about him, especially since Mickey kissed him without forcing him. Mickey was rough on him too and it didn't seem like he really wanted to stop. There was something there. He couldn't be the only one that saw it. Mickey had to see that they had something, Or at the very least, they could have something.

After getting fully dressed, Ian left the room. He headed down the stairs that led to the kitchen to find every one seated at the table including Lip, Sierra, and Nate, sans Balls. The only seat that was left open was between Lip and Debbie, Frannie munching on carrot sticks in her lap.

"Take a seat, Ian, so, we can start eating,” " Fiona instructed.

Ian nodded in reply, heading over to the empty chair and sat down, across from Mickey, who hadn't once looked up at him. He turned to Lip, "You still here? Thought you were leaving last night."

"Yeah, that was the plan," Lip replied, taking a bite of his turkey, "But it got really late and I really didn't want to drive the four hours over there at that point; we'll be heading over after eating."

Ian nodded again and started on his plate. The rest of the table ended up in conversations besides Ian and Mickey. Mickey stayed focused on his plate, just pushing around food with his fork. Lunch went on without them participating. It was almost like they were unacknowledged altogether, but Ian didn't care much about that. What ate at him was the fact that he was being unacknowledged by the one person he needed the acknowledgement from. Was he really just going to ignore him the rest of the day?

The table eventually cleared out. Lip, Sierra, and Nate leaving to go grab their bags. Debbie, Neil, and Frannie headed outside for whatever reason. Liam had gone to continue working on his project that was due when school started back up in about a week. Fiona went upstairs to check something, whatever 'something' meant. But Mickey held out, being one of the last ones at the table and Ian being the other while Carl did the dishes. He had barely touched his food and Ian wanted to bring that to his attention, as if he wasn't aware of it in the first place.

Ian opened his mouth, but clamped it back shut. Granted, he'd been Mickey's "care-taker" this entire time, so he could tell him to eat for that reason. But, did he really have the right to ask that, he wondered, looking down at his own half-eaten plate. He only swallowed the food to busy himself. He barely had the appetite with a knot forming in his stomach.

"Not hungry?" Ian finally asked.

"No." Mickey stood up, taking his plate with him. Ian watched him walk over to the trash can, popping the lid and scraping the food into the container. Without another word, he left the room and headed into the living room.

Ian sighed, rolling his eyes, and stood up himself. He quickly tossed his uneaten food away as well and followed Mickey's path.

"Mickey," He called after him just as he was about to place a foot onto the steps that lead upstairs, "Are you really just not going to talk to me?"

"Got nothin' to say."

"Come o—" Ian let out a frustrated sigh as he was going to continue upstairs and grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer to the center of the room. They should be out of earshot from everyone else in the house. "Mickey. We live together. We can't just not talk about it."

"I think I was handlin' not talkin' just fine," He replied, pulling his wrist out of Ian's once again and folded them over his chest.

Ian rolled his eyes again. "Yeah, because ignoring me is the best way to go."

Mickey shrugged.

"Why? You can't tell me you don't feel the same way... Even slightly."

Mickey said nothing and let his eyes wander to every furniture, every crack in the wall, anything to keep his attention from Ian.

"I would understand if you didn't. I would understand if you were completely appalled by the idea, but I would be able to tell. I've been around plenty of straight guys in my lifetime, Mickey, and none of them would've let it get that far."

He waited for any type of response, but, once again, he received none.

"You've never thought about it? Not even once? Even after everything we've been through?" He noticed Mickey's shoulders drop, losing the tension that was there since he'd confronted Mickey about it, so he continued pushing. "Mickey. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't feel the same way. If you can, then I'll leave it alone. Mickey," He urged, taking a rough hold off Mickey's arms until he finally made contact with him. "Tell me you don't feel the same way. Tell me you haven't seen me any more than a care-taker. More than a friend."

Mickey's eyes searched his, shifting, desperate to get out of this situation probably. "Why won't you just leave this alone, man?"

"Because I _like_ you, Mickey. I told you. And I think you like me too, but you won't admit to it. Just...Just tell me why then," Ian ceded, letting go of Mickey, "Why is this something you would rather ignore and pretend isn't happening?"

"Because you don't know me, Ian!" Mickey spat, " _I_ don't even know me! I have a whole 'nother life and apparently a kid somewhere out there, which means I probably have a girlfriend or a wife or some shit, so whatever I feel about you doesn't even fuckin' matter because we _can't_ happen!"

Mickey didn't even touch him, hadn't this entire time, yet Ian felt like he'd been suddenly punched in the gut. Hard. He couldn't even tell Mickey he was wrong. He had a point. An unfortunately very good one. One that hadn't even crossed his mind. He'd fallen for someone he probably couldn't, and shouldn't, have. What made it even worse was that Mickey in so many, or so little, words had alluded to the fact that he did feel something for Ian. Something was there between them; something they could've built something off of.

Of all fucking people in the world...

Ian wasn't sure how long they were standing there, just looking at each other, but neither of them moved from their spot and nothing broke their gaze until Fiona came into the room. She impeccable timing...

"Perfect, you guys are still here."

Mickey looked away, running a hand over his mouth, as Ian looked towards Fiona, who was staring at a booklet in her hands, and as much as he loved his sister, he didn't really want to deal with whatever she had to show them right now. There were way too many people in this house...

"I knew there was a reason why 'Mickey' seemed so familiar."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey turned towards Fiona just as quick as Ian had at the mention of his name. Okay, maybe Ian could shove his heartache to the side for a moment...

"What?"

"Your Little League team, Ian," She clarified, stopping just short of them. "It was eating at me and I remembered I kept a souvenir from your first game. Here." She held out the booklet towards him. The whites on the pages were already yellowing at this point, some colors fading away from what used to be vibrant and stark. He didn't even know Fiona kept this part of Ian's life. Yeah, they all came to his games religiously—they didn't miss even one for as long as he'd been a part of Little Leagues, but he didn't think they kept anything.

"It's not the greatest picture, but it's all I could find. This is the kid I was talking about."

Ian peered carefully at the name she was pointing to.

_Mikahilo "Mickey" M._

Mikhailo...

He tried to remember his pre-teen years in the Little Leagues. He didn't think he could ever forget a name like that. Apparently, he did.

"I can't remember his last name," Fiona added, "But I definitely remember a Mickey on the team being a little menace on the baseball field and threatening other kids with his bat and shit."

"Oh yeah!" Lip chimed in, appearing from the staircase as he made his way down. Sierra and Nate were in tow, carrying their bags. "I remember that kid. Didn't he get kicked him off the team because he pissed on first base or something?"

"I think I remember that," Ian muttered, voice trailing off as he dug deeper into his memories, "I was on second..."

"Oh man, that kid was the fuckin' worst," Lip laughed, helping Sierra with her jacket as Nate slipped on his. "But it did make for interesting games; that's for sure."

Ian counted the number of names it took to reach 'Mikhailo' and then counted the number of bodies lined up until he reached the kid who was supposed to be him. He had really short black hair, which looked pretty disheveled. All the kids were standing straight, arms at their sides, and those stupid smiles plastered on their faces because life is just great when you've just reached double digits. All except Mikhailo, which made it difficult to discern what he actually looked like. He had one eye closed in a strong wink, sticking his tongue out with a scrunched up nose and a devilish smile, holding up the rocker symbol with his fingers.

Ian looked up to Mickey, who stared back at him with a curious expression, fleeting between him and the book he was looking at. It didn't seem like anything from his past was coming to fruition with this newfound information; Mickey was still clueless. He handed the booklet to him and Mickey studied the photo, pensive and deep. The picture may have been similar. If Ian squinted enough he could see some resembling features, but it was hard to go off of a small picture from ten years ago.

He was able to pull some vague memories, but he wasn't ever in direct contact with that "Mickey". Although he was born and raised in the Southside of Chicago and they frequently got into some really questionable shit, that Mickey was a brash, 12-year-old boy who thought he ran the neighborhood with his crew; he was a whole other type of Southsider that Ian never wanted to deal with and so kept away from. Not like this Mickey. Not like this Mickey he'd known for eight months now. It couldn't have been the same person.

"Seem familiar?" Ian asked. He read for any more expressions on his face, followed every crease in his forehead, his fingers itching to smoothing them out and take away all of his worries or concerns. His blue eyes darted back and forth, up and down, taking in every inch of the page below him. Mickey was gnawing on the inside of his cheek, worrying the surface until it was probably red and raw. The gears were turning, that much was obvious, but the result?

It took a moment before Mickey shook his head and Ian felt his entire body deflate. He couldn't be sure if it was out of relief or disappointment. Relief that he could hold on to Mickey just a little bit longer. Disappointment for Mickey because he still couldn't find a missing piece of him.

Ian reached out a hand, settling on squeezing Mickey's shoulder. "We'll figure it out."


	21. The Alibi Room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! I know, I know, where have I been?? I'm sorry! I have been trying to figure out how to get this written out properly and fit everything correctly, while introducing people because I'm not trying to drag this out. It was quite the struggle and I'm still not completely okay with it, BUT I think it's good enough to publish (I will never be satisfied, tbh but you know how that goes lol )

It was supposed to be simple. So fucking simple. Be taken in, get his memories back, get his life back, and then go home. He wasn't supposed to be haunted by a past he had no recollection of. He wasn't supposed to build another life elsewhere. He wasn't supposed to be having these...feelings for someone, anyone.

When Ian confronted him he knew then what it was; it made sense what he felt, but he couldn't get himself to say it. He couldn't get himself to reciprocate it. Ian was right—there was nothing wrong. He couldn't see anything wrong with the way he felt, the way they felt. For the past few months, it was honestly the only thing that made sense to him. But something also tugged on his heartstrings then; made him apprehensive, guarded, and he couldn't be sure what it was or why.

There was that underlying fact that Mickey would have to get back to his life at some point and that reasoning was much simpler to explain to Ian in the moment, even if it wasn't the first thing that jumped up at him.

He should have been content that the conversation hadn't come up since that day. He should’ve been content that Ian was keeping his distance, because he wasn’t sure how to react or what to do around Ian anymore. He didn’t want to fuel his affections towards him or string him along in any way; he had to live with him for who knew how long now.

But he was so bothered that Ian kept too much of a distance. They could be in the same room, but Ian wouldn't look Mickey’s way. They could be sitting at the same table, but Ian would keep his attention on the plate full with food he would barely eat, the medical book of stuff that Mickey could tell his eyes were just grazing over, or the laptop that he would click click fucking click away at the mouse. What made it worse was that he would still cook, they would still share household duties, but that was it.

One second Ian was all over him, in his face, in his business, and the next he's nowhere to be found, miles away when they standing right beside the other. What the hell? Is that how you’re supposed to act with someone you supposedly like so much? Fucking childish, that's what it is. Mickey had to keep going like he didn't care because he didn't, because he shouldn't. What did it matter? Ian was going to be a figure of the past soon enough anyway, right? That's what he told him anyway. Right.

Mickey was beginning to tire himself out with his restless knee bouncing in its spot. He looked at the clock that sat above the TV. His jaw was set, teeth grinding against each other. It was damn near 4:30 in the morning, _hours_ past Ian's usual time that he returned home. Another night he was late without letting him know. It wasn't like it was what they did before, Ian had never stayed out later than he was supposed to because Mickey was always home and he didn't want to leave him home alone for too long like he was a fucking dog or something.

But this was yet another night that he hadn't come home on time. The first night was a couple days after Christmas. They had already settled back at their apartment and Ian had to go back to work. They went through the regular motions, Mickey already ticked that Ian wasn't really talking to him at that point, before he left. He hadn't come home for about an hour with a lame-ass excuse like, "Sorry, I'm late."

The second time, he was 2 hours late and it was the same excuse. The third time, he hadn't even come home at all and Mickey threw a pan of pizza into the oven to bake and ate the whole thing by himself without a second thought. Ian didn't come back until the next night, _on time_ , but he said he had gone out with people from work the day before and stayed at one of their places for the night. Mickey shrugged in reply, muttered something along the lines of "I ain't your keeper," and left it at that. But it would've been fucking nice to be told that ahead of time. Like a normal housemate would do.

Mickey still hadn't gotten over it, but he wasn't going to wait around for him again. With a huff, he turned the TV off, throwing the remote onto the couch, before standing. Taking another glance at the clock and then the door. If Ian walked in just then Mickey was ready to give him an earful.

But he hadn't.

The door stayed shut. He couldn't hear any footsteps or anything. Twenty minutes had already passed. He probably wasn't coming home again.

"Fuck this," Mickey said to himself and trudged over to the bed. He tugged the covers down and fell onto the bed, throwing the covers back over him. He knew he wasn't going to sleep any time soon, but he just felt the need to. He could fume in the bed, rather than the couch. It seemed much more comforting. And, this way, he could solidify the fact that he didn't care what time Ian came back. He wasn't hung up on Ian's childishness. He didn't care what Ian did or didn't do. It wasn't his problem.

Just then, the doorknob rattled and Mickey's ears perked up at the sound. It took a curiously longer time than he was used to hearing. Was Ian's place about to get broken into? Mickey's fingers curled over the seam of the comforter as he kept his hearing alert, eyes roaming over possible make-shift weapons around him. He didn't want to get up in the case that it was Ian and wanted to keep his cold-front present.

The door swung open and he heard footsteps stumble upon the carpeted flooring, their stance seeming to have weighed heavily on the previously shut door.

"Oops..." The voice was Ian's, quieted laughter following as he seemed to gain his balance back. Mickey's grip released in relief, but soon his guard came back. He was still pissed.

Then, another laugh, but it didn't sound like Ian's. Ian shushed. Was he shushing himself or someone else?

"My roommate's asleep..." There was something odd about his voice. It wasn't steady and he wasn't as quiet as he probably thought he was.

"Roommate? I thought you had a studio." The other voice said. A male's. This one was deeper than Ian's. Steadier. He had an accent; British or some shit.

"I do. But don't—don't worry," Ian slurred, "He's just crashing here...for a little while." _A little while?_  He was fucking drunk. What the hell?

"Should we go somewhere else then?"

The door clicked shut, but they hadn't left. The shuffling didn't stop.

"It's fine. Just be... _really_ quiet." And that they did. It was silent for a beat before he heard innately familiar smacking sounds.

A sigh broke through that incessant smacking, the kind of sigh that was more than just one of simple content. The kind of sigh that wasn't meant for any one else's ears but the person they were with. A sigh that Mickey was sure he was familiar with as it went straight down his groin.

Mickey grinded his teeth together. _He fuckin' wouldn't..._

The ruffle of clothing started soon after, the metal of belts jingling as they were being meddled with. Muffled thuds filled the room and Mickey couldn't mistake that for anything other than what it was—articles of clothing being thrown onto the floor.

It had only been a fucking week since Ian threw that confession at him and now he's already getting into someone else's pants? What the actual fuck?

A sharp pain in his palm centered his thoughts before it sprung off on a tangent, bringing him back to reality. He hadn't realized his fingernails were digging right into his palm to the point where four crescents had formed, painting the entire surface with a red tint.

"The couch," he heard Ian whisper.

There was an obvious decision to be made in that moment, Mickey knew. All he needed to do was stand up, or clear his throat, or bark out a "Get yourselves a fucking room"—something to bring attention to himself and get them to fucking leave, but his legs didn't move. His arms didn't move. He couldn't even get himself to even roll over. He had no control over his body just then and it pissed him off even more than Ian having decided to bring a guy over for a fuck, literally just days after he told Ian he liked _him_ , not some fucker off the street.

Okay, maybe not as much.

An object crinkled; a wrapper. He was really going for it...

"Wait," the other guy suddenly said. Finally, maybe there was actually a sane person in the room... "Before you do... Sit."

Mickey's brows furrowed. The futon creaked, some more shuffling sounds, and, then, a moan. Ian's moan. One he remembered so vividly from that night that only seemed like yesterday.

"Mm...I had forgotten how big you were." The playful tone in this guy's voice had Mickey sick to his stomach. He pulled the covers further over his shoulders, tightening his hold on the fabric to satiate the need to choke something. He needed ear plugs. He needed to knock himself out somehow.

But he couldn't do anything but lay there.

Ian hadn't said anything after that. A word hadn't left his lips since his direction to the couch. He was all pants, hisses, and soft grunts; sounds that churned two different sensations in the pit of Mickey's stomach, brewing for an immeasurable amount of time.

"Wait— I'm gonna, shit—" Ian was cut off by silence and short staccato grunts of his own and it seemed like it went on for hours when it had only less than a minute followed by an unnerving silence.

"Well, that was quick," the guy spoke with a chuckle.

Ian didn't say anything.

"That's quite alright." His voice still held a smile as he spoke, "We can go again."

"Mm—Wait-" A smack of lips, the sound of a tried kiss, "Owen— Owen, _stop_."

_Owen?_

"What? We have more than enough time to get you going again. You know it's not hard for me to do." More smacking sounds.

Mickey felt the strongest urge to punch the living shit out of this guy. His voice alone irritated the fuck out of him.

"No. No, this was a bad idea... I can't..." It was as if Ian's orgasm was enough to clear his mind and drunken slurs. Just a bit. "I shouldn't...shouldn't have let it get this far..."

Owen sighed, a touch of aggravation behind it. Ian seemed to have that effect on people. "I don't understand. We had something really good and, all of a sudden, you—"

"It was good for _you_! I di—" Ian stopped before his voice got any louder and sighed himself. "I'm not...not having this conversation again... I'm sorry. Please, just go."

"Ian—"

"Fuck, Owen, get _out_!" Ian hissed under his voice.

"Fine," he relented, roughly. More ruffling and jingling in the background. "You'll come crawling back to me. You always do. Next time, I'm not walking away so easily."

The door shut loudly behind him and there was nothing more but still silence. Mickey wasn't sure that Ian moved from his spot and he wasn't sure if he should get up now. The anger he felt towards Ian had dissipated and was transposed towards Owen, who, if he didn't stop, Mickey would have gotten up and pummeled right then and there.

Ian let out a final sigh a few minutes later, "Fuck..."

It sounded like he was putting his clothes back on before the soft thuds of footsteps began. The lock then latched and the lights turned off. Ian sauntered back to the couch, Mickey deduced by the sound of footsteps and creaking of the futon.

Mickey wanted to speak out, feeling the air suddenly turn sour. But he said nothing, letting Ian fall into a slumber than lasted well through the night.

* * *

Mickey woke up to a rattling sound, not sure when he fell asleep or how he fell asleep. Pushing the covers off of him, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up. He must have done it too quickly because he felt all the blood rush from his brain towards his toes. Regaining his spatial orientation, Mickey pushed himself off the bed, throwing on the sweater he had picked off the floor, before heading towards the living area.

The rattling sound appeared again. Ian, fully dressed in his work uniform, was putting a small bottle of pills away and Mickey wasn't entirely sure if it was his medication or Ibuprofen.

"You look like shit," Mickey commented, approaching the dividing counter.

Ian chuckled softly, barely audible as his back was turned towards Mickey, "Good morning to you too."

Neither said anything until Mickey broke the silence once again, taking a seat on the nearest stool. "Late night?"

Ian nodded, placing a bowl in the sink. "Sorry, I couldn't make the full breakfast," Ian spoke, moving around the corner to gather his coat and shoes, still not meeting his eyes, "I woke up late too and you were knocked out. We're out of groceries anyway, but there's cereal. I'll go shopping after work."

Mickey nodded. Looking past the hangover-ridden male, Mickey read the clock on the microwave to be a little past two in the afternoon. Shit, he did sleep late. Watching Ian tie up his shoes on the futon, he wasn't sure how to bring up last night, if Ian wanted to talk about whatever happened between him and Owen since he was supposed to be asleep, but he wasn't sure he himself even wanted to bring it up at all. It was a topic that he was sure would leave a sour taste in his mouth.

When Ian stood up and threw on his jacket, Mickey finally decided to speak. Not really something he was intending on saying, but causing Ian to freeze, mid-cover. "I'll go shopping."

"What?"

Shit. He had already committed... "I'll go grocery shopping while you're at work," Mickey clarified.

"You sure?" Asked Ian, finally slipping his last arm through the sleeve and zipping himself up.

"Yeah. I can get out of the house for once," Mickey continued. It was easy and it wasn't a complete lie. He really hadn't left out on his own ever since he got the keys to the apartment. Plus, if Ian was going to continue bringing guys over, he wasn't about to be in the house.

"Okay..." Ian replied, still hesitant, "If you're sure..."

Mickey rolled his eyes. "I'm not your fucking child, Gallagher. I'm capable of going out on my own."

"I didn't say— Okay." Ian sighed, cutting himself short and dug into his pocket to pull out his wallet. He opened the brown leather casing and pulled out a few dollar bills. "Here. Get whatever you want. I don't work too far from the store, so let me know if you need help carrying anything home and I can get out for a little bit."

"How am I going to do that? I don't have a phone..."

"Oh... Right..." Ian trailed off.

Mickey could see the calculation of any possible solutions to this issue all over his face and he had no patience for it, whatsoever. "Don't worry about it," he replied, taking the money from him. "I can manage."

"You sure?"

"Yes— Jesus, will you just go to work already? You're going to be late if you keep standin' here, yappin'."

Ian glanced at the microwave and his eyes widened. "Shit, you're right." He hurried to the end table by the couch to grab his keys and phone, stuffing them into his pockets. "Okay. I gotta go. But let me know— Oh, right. Never mind. I gave you a little extra so you can go get yourself breakfast at iHop or something for now, okay? I'll see you after work."

Mickey scoffed to himself, whispering under his breath, "Yeah, okay."

Ian disappeared behind the door, leaving Mickey standing there with a handful of dollar bills. Flipping through, he speculated about $200 in there. The hell was he going to do with $200? Their regular groceries alone costs them a little over $100, no more than $150. iHop wasn't going to come even close to spending all that.

With a shake of his head, Mickey left the money on the counter and headed into the bathroom. He turned the shower on, all the way to the hottest setting, before beginning to strip out of his clothes, letting them fall onto the floor carelessly.

Feeling the water was hot enough, he stepped in and he was instantly relieved, the water melting away all the stress right off his shoulders into the drain. Taking the body wash that sat in the corner rim of the tub, he popped the tab and squirted a generous amount in his hands, lathering himself up.

The only thing with showers, he realized, is that as it's known to wash away stress, it also washes away inhibitions. His mind drifted off to last night when Ian walked in with whoever-the-fuck, getting lost in those sounds he made. He had seen Ian enough times that his imagination was strong enough to paint the picture in his head, leaving the other party unfilled and dark, almost nonexistent, like Ian was doing the work himself.

The light blue uniform he always wore had been unbuttoned, leaving his bare torso only just so visible. There was that jingle. He was working the metal hook of his belt apart, letting it hang loose as he unzipped his trousers. A flawless cut and Ian was already on that bright yellow futon, head laid over the back. His fingers ran through his fiery red locks, a stark contrast against the background. His eyes were closed, eyebrows furrowed together as his mouth hung open. His tongue slid along his lips, coating them shiny and pink, and Mickey sucked his own into his mouth, barely acknowledging the pain he felt as his teeth ground into the sensitive muscle. The sensation he felt stirring below as his soaped-up hand scrubbed his abdomen and ventured lower until it gripped his half-hard member.

Ian was doing the same. His large hand, blanched at the knuckles, was curled around his cock, sliding up and down the shaft. The dusty rose head contrasted against his pale skin, his stomach rising and falling unevenly with every shuddering breath.

Mickey then heard a sound, but his eyes too focused on Ian's leaking tip. He couldn't hear clearly. When he looked up, Ian was looking back at him with those pure emerald eyes more bright and shimmering than he could even remember. Probably because his cheeks were flushed, like it usually is after a workout.

It was that same breathy voice from the night before; those pants, hisses, and soft grunts. And as Mickey pumped faster, the churning in his stomach increased and the sounds got louder, but Ian's half-lidded gaze never strayed from Mickey, causing him to take in the sights he'd conjured up. Ian's forehead creasing, eyebrows slanting upwards, jaw slack and open, struggling to get words out that just couldn't give.

Never having been blessed with that sight before, it stirred something fierce within Mickey. A rush of sweet pleasure was coursing in waves through his bloodstream and suddenly that was all he could feel. He had to grab hold of the yellow futon behind Ian. It was curiously cold and hard, slippery, but Mickey couldn't give enough fucks as to why.

"Fuck..." He breathed, feeling his body beginning to wind up so tightly like a rubber band being pulled to its breaking point. His fingers curled into the surface in an attempt to hold on to some kind of composure, but it was a losing battle.

 _"Wait—I'm gonna, shit—"_ Ian was cut off by silence and short staccato grunts of his own and Mickey followed suit, waves finally crashing and then it was as if a bolt of lightening and struck through him. He could barely muster any strength to keep himself standing as his knees shook in tandem with the haphazard jerks of his body.

Mickey managed to barely open his eyes in time to watch thick ribbons of white swirling down the drain, the cloud he was floating on slowly behind it. His sharp exhales were drowned out by the rushing water as reality started to sit in.

He was alone, no Ian in sight, the couch still sat in the other room as his hand only gripped the slippery, cold tiled wall. It was just him. He was just taking a shower and being naked was a norm, but he suddenly felt too exposed, vulnerable, ashamed.

There was a throbbing against his temple. Dull and superficial. Maybe he’d been in hot water for much too long. He bent down to turn the water off when suddenly, There was a sudden flash of something in his head accompanied by sharp throb right between his temples, much deeper than before.

Then, another one. He hissed, cradling his head as they began to multiply and intensify. Groaning, Mickey doubled over. The pain in his head was enough to outweigh the pain of his fingers digging into the skin around his ears.

_Mickey!_

It was a female voice, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. It sounded familiar, that same voice from his memory of a baby boy in a crib. It didn’t last long as there was a slam of a door and he was alone.

_The fuck is this? That fuck I say about this faggot shit? You’ve got to learn one way or another!_

This one was different. Gruff. Loud. Frightening. His heart began to skip several beats, pounding erratically against his ribcage. Much in the same as talons clawing at his chest. More flashes, pictures starting to form. A face. A body. Mostly blurs.

_I didn't teach any of you boys this shit!_

A flash, a strike of pain. Mickey groaned and his fists tightened further around his ears, beginning to block out any sound, the rushing of the water slowly giving way to catapulting insults that seemed never-ending.

There was a faint stench of tobacco, a different brand of cigarettes than Ian used for sure, and alcohol, but he swore it all should have been near non-existent on him, at least this morning, just after washing himself.

_A fuckin' ass bandit?!_

Mickey was being dragged through the fucking mud, and that might as well have been literal. It was comparable to that very first dream he had experienced. His skin burned and ached. Suddenly, he was forced to look up, thick fingers having curled around the collar of his shirt and tugged up, and the face was clear as day. An older male, face inflated and contorted in the most disgusted expression Mickey had ever seen, a full redness to the base of his sandy brown and gray hair. His lips were curled up so high that he resembled a snarling Rottweiler and his next words rang so clearly that it brought chills down his spine, as if Mickey wasn't shaking enough as it was.

_No son of mine is gonna grow up a fuckin' fairy…_

Mickey gasped, eyes finally shooting open. His surroundings were no longer the clear image he had just had. It was blurry, a white static noise in his ears. He groaned softly, rubbing his eyes, as a heaviness of what a deep sleep would have felt like weighed down his body. In no way did he feel relaxed like one normally would, however. His muscles ached as if he'd been sleeping in an odd position, his head was throbbing; he just felt sluggish.

Slowly, the white static morphed into something more recognizable. Running water. Blinking, his surroundings also became clear. A bathroom. Right. Ian's bathroom. He was showering just before this and the running water of the shower head hitting his stomach had now gone lukewarm, bordering on the edge of frigid. Mickey sat up with another groan, leaning forward to turn the water off. He lifted a hand to gingerly rub the back of his head where he was sure it made contact with the tub or the wall, the source of the pain.

"Fuck," he hissed again, touching it wrongly. Carefully, he stood, grabbing a towel from the rack and tied around his waist. Picking up his clothes from the floor, he left the room and trudged over to the dresser, hand tucked right under his opposite arm as he mindlessly rubbed his ribs.

Mickey pulled out warm clothes to change into. He needed to get out of the apartment, get some fresh air, take his mind off of whatever the fuck that memory was.

_The fuck is this? That fuck I say about this faggot shit?_

Mickey rubbed his arms where he could feel a subtle soreness.

_No son of mine is gonna grow up a fuckin' fairy…_

Son of mine.

That couldn’t have been his father… It couldn’t have been… The only semblance of a family Mickey could muster up was _that_? No. He shook his head, pulling a clean sweater over his head and sauntered to the bedside table.

"Fuckin' hell..." He groused when he took note of the time, swiping the key that sat next to his stack of Steven Seagal movies. It was already past 6 in the evening. He'd been out for 4 fucking hours. It had been so long since he had a memory flash that caused him to pass out like that and one so much similar to now. Could that have been the same person?

His supposed "father" beat on him for what? For "faggot shit"? For growing up “a fuckin’ fairy”? Part of what Ian was, in the most derogatory term, and what Mickey could be classified as with his unaccepted feelings towards him?

With a sigh, Mickey put on his coat, grabbed the money, and left the apartment.

* * *

The walk to the store took twice as long as he was used to since he and Ian would always drive and the amount of time it took to shop was cut in half. He didn't have Ian to bug or fight with about which cereal to buy, what size watermelon to go with, whether they wanted chicken or pasta for dinner. Coupled with the lack of customers in the store, it was very uneventful, boring, and oddly very lonely.

Apparently, people had to pay 7 cents per bag now, what the hell? Mickey never paid much attention when Ian handled everything, but in no way was he going to let the government take more than they needed to. Collecting his change and two plastic bags fully stuffed with groceries, he left the store with $96 and his 7 cents in possession.

On his way back home, his stomach grumbled loudly. Oh, right. He forgot he needed to eat. Looking around, he spotted a nearby bar. It seemed oddly placed, the first floor covered in a stark red wood paneling contrasting against the dark brick structures of two other residential buildings that were snug on either side. Above the two large, multicolored windows of the bar, 'The Alibi Room' was written in gold lettering. Two people walked out, laughing loudly.

From the little sliver he was able to see into the establishment, it looked cozy and warm, and still being winter, he preferred to go somewhere close rather than walk around looking for a restaurant or something—none of which he remembered seeing in proximity. Some bar food, wings or whatever, should do him some good.

Re-situating the bags in his hands, the heavy weight now settling into his frozen fingers, he crossed the street as quickly as he could and struggled with opening the door before someone walked out, allowing him to go through. The place was as small as it looked from the outside, Chicago “fresh” air now replaced with mixed brands of cigarettes and belches of alcohol. No scent of real food though…

Mickey threw caution into the wind and walked further in, right up to the bar and the farthest empty seat he could find. He plopped the bags of groceries onto the floor and his feet played against the loops of the foot bar near them so that he knew the food wouldn’t be taken as his eyes scanned the room. The rational part of him figured no one would, but he had no trust in these people who inhabited the bar. They all looked suspicious with their joyful smiles and loud laughs.

“What can I get for ya?” A voice spoke behind him; almost startling him until it fit somewhere snug in the pockets of his memory banks. This voice was recognizable… Mickey turned his head and there Kev stood, wiping down a glass with a hand towel, a small straw settling on his bottom lip.

“Mickey? What’re you doin’ here?” Kev asked, just as surprised as he was.

“Me? What’re you doin’ here? You work here?”

“Uh, try I own the place. Me and V.” He set down the glass, throwing the small towel over his shoulders. Mickey could only vaguely remember him mentioning something about this on Christmas, but he couldn’t actually produce the name of the place he worked. Apparently, it was the Alibi Room. “So, what can I do ya for?”

“You got any food or somethin’?”

Kev quirked a brow high, chewing on the straw. “You come to a bar to get food? What, Ian not feeding you enough?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, “I just came back from the store, but I didn’t feel like walking all the way home. You got anything or not, man?”

“We got some—not a lot,” Kev pulled out a small laminated menu from behind the bar and slid it in front of Mickey. “We just started this food thing, but not many regulars order from it. I think they forget we have it. We got wings and fries and shit. Small things.”

Mickey’s eyes scanned over the short list. There really wasn’t a lot to go through. They were pretty much appetizer foods—wings, fries, fried pickles, pretzels. “I’ll do the wings.”

“You got it. Anything to drink or you just came to eat?”

“I’ll take a beer. Old Style.”

“My kind of man,” Kev grinned, grabbing a bottle from below, “Comin’ right up. Hey, babe!” He yelled behind him and V waddled right around the corner.

"Yeah, babe? Oh! Hey, Mickey," she smiled her pristine perfect smile as always. "I don't usually see you around here."

"Yeah, he's a newcomer," Kev answered. "Could you fire up an order of wings for 'im?"

"Sure, I'll be right back." She exited the bar and disappeared behind a pair of black swinging doors.

Kev placed a tall glass on the counter and poured the amber liquid expertly, leaving minimum foam. "So, Ian let you out of the doghouse today?"

"The fuck does that mean?"

He shrugged, topping off the glass. "I just never see you around here. Or anywhere for that matter."

Mickey shrugged as well, picking up the glass to his lips, "Just needed to get out." He tipped his head back, letting the cool drink slid down his throat, a taste he didn't know he needed so much.

"Whoa, trouble in paradise?" Kev laughed, watching Mickey set down his cup with a slam as he let out a gross burp, deep from his gut.

"What?"

"You and Ian fight or somethin'?"

"Why d'you say that?"

Kev nodded to the mug, which Mickey found to be more than half gone. Oh. "What's up?"

"Nothin'." Mickey groused.

"Oh, come on, you don't know how this works?" Kev asked, "You come into my bar, drink a shit-ton, and talk your troubles away. Have you never been to a bar before?"

Mickey just glared at him, but Kev stayed on him, eyebrows raising suggestively, as if he knew he was going to break. Just then, he slid the bowl of beer nuts over to him, somewhat solidifying Mickey in his place.

He rolled his eyes and took a smaller sip of his drink this time. Kev dutifully waited for any prompt, staring at him and Mickey just got more and more wary.

Mickey sighed, setting down his tall glass. "Ian and I didn't get into a fight, just so you know."

"Okay," Kev replied with a nod and said nothing more, waiting again.

"Who's Owen?"

"Owen?"

"Yeah. Remember, at the house on Christmas, everyone keep asking about that guy. Is he with him or somethin'?"

"Uh, I don't think so. I haven't seen Ian around with him as much, but yeah, they were basically together. For a long while. The guy carried Ian around like he was a trophy or somethin'."

"Do you know what happened?"

"Happened? What d'you mean?"

Mickey frowned. The look on Kev's face really was one of confusion, not able to know here Mickey was going with the question... Unless he really didn't know and it was something Ian didn't tell him or anyone since no one knew about why he "couldn't do this again" with Owen.

He finally shook his head, “Never mind." He knocked back another swig of his drink as Veronica came back with a plastic tray of steaming hot wings and a small cup of ranch dressing.

"A serving of wings," She announced, placing the tray down. "Need anything else?"

"Nah. I'm good," Mickey replied.

"Babe, you seen Ian with Owen around lately?"

"Owen?" Veronica shook her head, dreads packed in a neat bun and unmoving with each movement. "No, I figured they were done by now. Thank god, I never liked the guy." She added, placing her hands on her hips.

"No? I thought he was pretty nice. Smooth as a motherfucker," Kev recalled.

Veronica tisked in reply, "You only liked him because he tipped a little too well."

"You talkin' about that British guy?" Another voice chimed in. It was an older guy, sitting just two seats from Mickey. He had a plaid long-sleeve on, partly unbuttoned and revealing a plain t-shirt under. Short gray hairs just barely peeked through under a worn tan cap Mickey was sure to be at least half the guy's age. He was wide, but healthily plump, cheeks protruding outwards as if they were forming a perpetual smile. A bowl of beer nuts sat next to a similar half-filled tall glass of beer was cradled between his curled fingers and an egg laid heavily on the bottom.

"Yeah," Kev replied.

"Oh, he pissed me off every time he opened his mouth," The guys body shook with a deep chuckle as he took another sip of his beer. "Talking like he was better than everyone else."

"Oh, come on, Tommy, everyone pisses you off."

"That may be true," he tilted his head in agreement, "but this guy most especially rubbed me the wrong way. You new here?" He directed the last question towards Mickey, nodding his double chin towards him. "Haven't seen you around before."

Mickey wasn't entirely sure how to answer that question. New to the bar or new to Chicago? He definitely couldn't answer either of them with certainty because he could have very well been here before Kev started working there or been in Chicago. But, to save the trouble of further explanation, he decided to go with the simple answer. "Yeah."

Tommy nodded, going back to his drink.

"Why're you askin' about him anyway?" Kev questioned as V excused herself to go tend to another customer who came up to the counter.

"No reason," answered Mickey, staring at his fork that was diligently stabbing the wings in his tray. After a few moments of trying to create a coherent thought, he picked his head back up. "Does Ian...get around a lot?"

"Huh?"

"Y'know, does he...sleep around a lot?"

Kev chewed on the stirrer that still sat between his lips, eyes steady on Mickey. Mickey was suddenly self-conscious, feeling too open, too vulnerable, and he didn't like it. He wasn't even sure why he asked that question in the first place, but he was unnaturally curious and not knowing was causing a phantom ache in his core. Before he could withdraw his question, Kev answered anyway...not one Mickey was hoping for.

"I don't really know; it's not like I'm his secret box or somethin'. But I don't see why not. He's young and, as far as I know, single, so he could dive balls deep into the world if he really wanted... But I don't know. Don't quote me on that."

Mickey hadn't known he had had his jaw set so tightly until he felt that strong ache in his mandible. Letting go of his fork, he rubbed the area before taking another drink of his beer.

Fuck. Maybe he was downing his beer a little too quickly. He was already starting to feel that lightness of his body and swaying sensation when his eyes darted to a corner the room.

He shook his head slowly and hopped off the barstool. "I gotta go."

"You want the wings to-go?" Kev asked as Mickey picked up the bags at his feet. "You haven't touched them."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Mickey pulled the folded cash out of his pocket, flipping through it. "How much I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it. On the house." Kev slid a small box over to him and Mickey eyed it and then Kev. "First-timer's discount. You're paying next time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like the interaction with Kev and Mickey. It kinda sounds like that right? *hopeful eyes*


	22. Home Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready to kill me yet? >.< It's been so long! I'd been staring at the empty pages of this chapter, trying to will myself to write, but I had so much going on internally and externally that I lost all motivation and inspiration D: I even tried rewatching Shameless and didn't get far T_T But i swore I wasn't going to give up on my Gallavich and my Finding Me fans, so I cranked this chapter out to get out of mu writer's block (literaly got words down and got this out in 3 days, so at least I know I can write lol). Nothing of my life has calmed down yet, but I am finding solace in this story. I reread the last few chapters - from 18, onward - and was like "damn, this is actually really good; I cant quit on my readers now" lmao Excuse my brief moment of narcissism. But anyway, this is me moseying along, getting back on the saddle. I missed you all!

Mickey awoke the next morning with a start, chest rising and falling as if he had run a 5 mile marathon in under 20 minutes. He struggled to regain his breath and the clarity of his surroundings. He was so sure it was a mix of greens, reds, yellows with the scent of nicotine and nature filling the air. But it all went dark and then, he just saw white. Nothing left for the imagination.

The sharp bang rand loudly in his head--too familiar, too harsh. It crackled in his ears, leaving arrhythmic pulses in his blood that even controlled breaths couldn't steady. 

_What the fuck..._

It took a minute to realize he was back in Ian's apartment. Bland and unexciting.

Normal. Safe.

Bringing a hand over his face to rub the sleep and anxiety from it, he hissed at the slightest turn of his head. There was a terrible crick in his neck, leaving him almost paralyzed in his spot. If this is what he'd feel like at 60, there was no fucking way he'd want to live past 50... 

Just like a mishandled action figure, Mickey pushed his torso up from the futon, rigid and slow. 

"Fuck..." He groaned, bent over his knees as he attempted to rub the tension out. He wasn't used to falling asleep for any amount of time on the futon. How the hell did Ian manage to do it for so long?

Speaking of...

Mickey looked around the small apartment and everything seemed the same from the night before. The television was playing some random infomercial about a 5-part exercise DVD for 3 easy payments of $39.99! 

...Pass. 

He picked up the remote from the coffee table, six bottles of beer and his empty to-go box of chicken wings littering the surface, and turned the TV off. The bed was left unmade as it was when he got out of it yesterday morning. It was still in the same manner with the covers pushed to the side, bed sheets falling off the foot of the bed, and one pillow on the floor while the other was propped up against the wall. 

If Ian had slept on it, Mickey knew it would have been made already. If Ian had come home, the TV would have been off and the beer bottles and to-go box would have been gone. If Ian had opted for sleeping on the same futon, Mickey would have been woken up. He was a light sleeper.

So, Ian hadn't come home. Now, he was pissed. He had taken it upon himself to walk _all_ the way over to the grocery store last night, walk _all_ the way back, and Ian didn't even have the fucking decency to come home to have dinner?

Mickey huffed and abruptly stood up. He soon regretted his life choices when another sharp pain ran down his spine, not unlike a nail being hammered into the base of his neck.

"Fuckin' hell..." He groused, cradling his neck, and carefully made his way into the bathroom to wash the stench of Old Style off of him.

* * *

A slam broke Ian out of his slumber and into a cold, heart-racing sweat. His EMT jacket slid off his face and onto his lap as he immediately found himself upright, his foundation teetering from the abrupt movement. He forgot to lock the gurney he slept on last night.

His palms flew to rub the sleep and dryness out of his eyes. He also forgot to take out his contacts since he forgot to grab his glasses from the nightstand last night/early this morning. Great. 

He hadn't wanted to wake Mickey when he stopped by briefly to leave something for him. So, there weren't many options. With that many beer bottles on the coffee table, he probably couldn't wake Mickey even if he tried. But, that was a risk he wasn't willing to take. 

Ian knew it was dumb. _He_ was dumb. He was acting like a fucking child, avoiding Mickey like this. Doing everything to not think about that night, that morning, or him. But he couldn't get himself to be anywhere around him, let alone look at him. It only reminded him of what he couldn't have and it killed him on the inside. Fuck, he shouldn't have brought him in in the first place... But who could've predicted this situation would happen? Could ever happen?

Actually, the lack of a love life may have something to do with that...

"Gallagher?"

Artificial lighting had illuminated the entire truck, blinding Ian, just having been in a comfortable and silent darkness seconds ago. He looked up to find a blurry Sue standing behind the opened door, the cause of the disruption.

"What're you doing in the back-up truck? You aren't on schedule for today..." 

Once his vision straightened out somewhat, her calculating stare unnerved Ian, especially when it landed on his duffle bag full of clothes, his shoes tossed to the side, and his laptop open with papers scattered around it. Sure, he's told Sue a lot of things, but he hadn't told her this. He didn't really want to. He would be reliving it and sounding fucking pathetic while doing so. 

"How long have you been in here?"

"Uh..." Ian stared back, dumbfounded. He didn't think anyone was going to come to this truck anytime soon. They had two in the front ready to go for their emergencies; this one was not to be used unless one of the two had to go in for repair. It caught him off-guard.

He wasn't even sure what time it was. 

After his shift the day before, Ian hadn't actually left the station when the night crew had been called out on an emergency. He came to work already prepared not to go home. Mickey had taken it upon himself to get groceries, so he didn't have to rush back to get food for him. And he didn't have to work today. Ian wouldn't have known what to do if he had to spend the whole day at home with Mickey. But a part of him felt like he should have been there before Mickey came home. It was his first time out on his own. Granted, Ian shouldn't be thinking of him as his child, but he had been taking great care of him for so long that he couldn't help but worry relentlessly.

The worrying had festered into guilt.

"Plumbing. Apartment overflowed."

"Plumbing..." Sue repeated as if analyzing each letter. Ian nodded in response, internally crumbling at his poorly executed excuse.

"So, where's Mickey staying then?"

"Uh..."

Sue rolled her eyes. "Cut the crap, Gallagher. Remember who you're talking to. What's really going on?"

Ian sighed, running his fingers over his bushy brows in exasperation. "I don't know. I'm being an idiot."

"What does that mean?" She asked, climbing into the van herself. She took her spot in the seat that EMTs usually sat as they watched over their patients in front of them. There was something weirdly fitting about the situation. "Did you guys get in a fight or something?"

Ian ran his hands through his greasy hair. He needed a shower. "Something like that..."

Sue awaited further elaboration, but didn't get any. Of course, Ian knew she was going to push it. "Ian, you gonna tell me or do I have to pull it out of you?"

"It's been...weird," Ian relented, "Since Christmas..."

"Meaning?"

"Things happened. We...kissed--"

"You _kissed_? You and Mickey?"

Ian nodded, sheepishly running his palm over the back of his neck. His hair was getting long too; he added that onto his long list of things to do. "I was drunk, but it was so good." He couldn't help, but gush playing back that heated kiss. "And he was definitely into it too."

A smile erupted along Sue's lips. "Okay, well, that sounds like a good thing. A _really_ good thing. So, what's the problem?"

Ian's own smile faltered as his mind continued through the feature like a film he'd seen just the day before. "We can't happen... He doesn't even want anything to happen."

"Oh." Sue sounded just as dejected as Ian had been feeling, which only emphasized that sensation akin to a piece of himself being carved out of his chest.

"I mean, he has a point, y'know? He's got a life somewhere - a wife, maybe; apparently he might have a _child_ that he's gotta go back to. How's he just going to drop all of that just to be with me? Even if he thought of me that way?"

"I see..." Sue responded. "So...why are you camping out here at the station?"

Ian forced a smile to lighten the situation and conversation although the admittance was embarrassing and heart-wrenching at the same time. "It kind of hurts to be around him... Y'know, being constantly reminded of that thing you can never have..."

Sue nodded in response. "I get you, Ian. I do. It sucks, but you can't run away from him forever, you know. You don't even know how long he's going to be around and it could be a while. It's close to a year now. Are you going to couch surf for another year?"

Ian's gaze fell to the blanket in his lap, fingers twisting in the fabric. The one thing that he wouldn't admit out loud kept him grounded. The only item from the Gallagher home that reminded him of how close his family used to be.

"And remember you made him a promise to look after him and help him. You gonna go back on your word too?"

The answer was obvious. He hadn't really thought this all the way through. What could he do though? They lived in a tiny-ass studio with barely any breathing room... Although, he had left Mickey alone for longer than he was consciously comfortable with. Ian would usually stop by at least once before he disappeared for the rest of the day, even though that was in the dead of night, but how long could he really keep that up?

He was running out of couches. He couldn't go to the family home; it was weird since Carl approached him about their debacle in the living room. Apparently, they weren't as quiet as they had thought. Lip had one too many bodies in their little apartment. He made the mistake of running to Owen one too many times already. He was out of resources.

"What were you doing over there anyway?"

Ian looked up from his lap to find Sue's gaze trying to sift through the scattered paper near his laptop.

"Oh. We may have found Mickey's identify. We got what could be his full first name, so I've been trying to narrow down all the Mikhailo's in the city."

Sue snorted, "You're a part-time private investigator too?"

Ian chuckled, "Something like that."

"So, you narrowed much down?"

"There actually aren't a lot of Mikhailo's to search through. I just gotta figure out the right address because none of the have working phone numbers. But there is one that should be easier to find because he used to be in my Little League team. Schools in the district are opening up in a couple days, so I can check out the yearbooks there."

"Wow, sounds like you're really close then."

"Yeah..."

"Don't start jumping out of your gurney or anything," Sue chuckled, standing up, "So, you wanna work in-house today to keep yourself occupied? Because you know I can't let you stay in here."

Ian sighed, pushing himself out of the gurney. "Sure."

"And you're going home and facing him. Today."

"Yes ma'am..."

* * *

Ian had been extremely wary about going home for the last 6 hours.

Working in-house did absolutely nothing to occupy his mind. There were only menial tasks to do since he wasn't running out into the line of fire. Maybe if he was, time would've passed by quicker, so he wouldn't be anticipating the worst or letting anxiety fester. He would've just ended up heading home at the end of the day, saying hi to Mickey, and then passing the fuck out. 

But maybe this was also a blessing in disguise. He had time to play over all the scenarios in his head, all the conversations that could happen or he could _make_ happen to avoid any awkward encounters. In the case he couldn't fall asleep quickly, he at least had backup plans.

But, it didn't make this drive back any easier... So, he sat in his car for twenty more minutes, just staring up at his window. The lights were off - not even the faint dancing of blue light along the blinds from the television being on - and they hadn't turned on since he arrived. Was Mickey asleep? Was he out?

The nerves from the possibility of Mickey being there eventually lost the battle when he pulled the key out of the ignition. Not wasting gas was more important than having his sanity after all. Grabbing his duffle bag from the passenger seat, Ian heaved a deep sigh and trudged his way upstairs. Like Sue had mentioned, he'd have to face him sooner or later. 

His grip tightened on the strap of his bag as he inserted the apartment key into the lock. For a brief moment, the question of how many times Mickey had used his Christmas present flashed through his mind. He couldn't contemplate it too much because this seemed to be one of those times.

The lights were off as he figured. The TV was off as well, which is unusual while Mickey was in. Even as he slept, Mickey would still have some sort of glow to light his way whether it be the ceiling fixture, the lamp next to his bed, or the TV. _Something_ would still be on. 

Listening for the lightest hint of a snore or shifting in the bed, Ian gently shut the door behind him, burning out the only source of light. There was nothing. Not a sound. Mickey must have not been home then.

Flipping the light switch on, Ian toed his boots off, letting them fall wherever they wanted, and stepped further into his home. The only indication that solidified Ian's previous conclusion of Mickey being out is the fact that the note and money he left on the counter for him was gone, the coffee table was cleared of beer bottles and food trays, and dishes were put away. Mickey actually tidied up the place. 

Ian placed his keys on the counter and the bag of take-out he had picked up on his way home for Mickey next to it. Glancing at the stove, the glowing digits bothered him now. It was nearing 10PM and there was no note, letting Ian know where Mickey was. Could he really expect that much, though? It's not like he'd been home enough for Mickey to inform him of his whereabouts anyway if he ever did leave.

With a hum of uncertainty, Ian grabbed a beer from the fridge and dug in a drawer for the bottle opener. Both items followed him to the couch, his lonely bed, and he turned the TV on to continue killing time for Mickey's arrival.


	23. Late nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this! You didn't have to wait another two months, aren't you proud of me?! :D

After he had gotten out of the shower that morning, Mickey rummaged through the freezer in search of a microwaveable breakfast sandwich that he was _so_ kind enough to pick up from the grocery store _for_ Ian so he didn’t have to cook every morning. As he awaited that familiar beep, watching the faucet fill his cup to the brim, he noticed a stack of cash on the counter and next to it a yellow paper with scribbles on it.

A bushy brow of Mickey's raised as he tipped his head. He turned the faucet off, setting the cup down, to pick up the paper. It held Ian’s cat scratch.

When did that get there? Had he entered the apartment while he was taking a shower? Was he avoiding him _that_ intensely? What the hell did he say other than the truth? Better yet, what the hell did he leave cash for? Did he expect him to go grocery shopping again? He’s got another thing fucking coming if he thinks he’s his fucking butler.

 _Hey, Mick,_  
_Sorry, working overtime today. Here’s some cash if you want to get out of the house a bit and pick up some clothes for yourself. Totally up to you._  

Mickey scoffed. That’s it? He turned the post-it note around. That really was it. Wow.

Rolling the note in his palm, Mickey flicked the small sheet, not thinking twice about it falling in the sink. He picked up the money and flipped through it. If the cost of clothes he was supposed to buy was anywhere around what Ian had paid for his Christmas clothes, he may not even have enough.

Was he even really considering going shopping though? Not at all. He didn’t really need clothes. He’d be out of here soon enough and would be welcomed with an entire closet of his own.

But he was bored again...

He had cleaned off the coffee table, made the bed, baked frozen pizza while he was washing the dishes, and ate the whole thing by himself. Again, he was _not_ Ian’s butler, but he was so fucking bored.

That’s when he decided to fuck it all.

That’s how he found himself stepping off the second bus, not entirely sure where he was or where he was going. Well, he knew where he _wanted_ to go at least. Where he was going to end up was the question. He was distracted. There was a burning on the front of his thigh. There was also a handful of people around him. Not very many colors, yet all shapes and sizes. Still, he felt he stuck out like a sore thumb; very apparent, like they knew his business. But, at the same time, he was sure he looked like a regular citizen. He had to be.

Dressed in a grey pullover peeking through his—Ian’s—unzipped, winter coat and inconspicuous dark wash jeans, he blended. In this falling night sky, he blended. But he could still feel eyes were boring holes into his back and the side of his head.

He had taken all of two minutes to really look at the map he pulled up on Ian’s laptop earlier in the day. It was simple though. All he had to do was take a couple buses. It was easy enough to remember the numbers and the cardinal directions he needed go. He realized, however, he couldn't remember everything—like the streets he was supposed to stop at and fuck him if he was going to ask anyone around him. He didn’t know anyone here. He didn’t trust anyone—besides Ian, although that trust may have to be reconsidered... So, who’s to say what they’d do if they knew he had a little over $300 his pockets right now? Probably less now.

Maybe it was that impromptu stop for Checkers that fucked him over... But he couldn’t pass up a burger and fries from _Checkers_ though. His mouth watered just at the sight of the fast food restaurant.

Now, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea. It was getting too dark. He didn’t have a phone to help him figure out where the hell he was, couldn’t even get a hold of Ian—not that he really wanted to, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of the day in and out of businesses just trying to get home either. It was something he could feel he had done before and it wasn’t anywhere appealing compared to what he _could_ have been doing.

His hand stayed glued to his thigh as he walked in the direction his feet led.

“Aye,” A voice called behind him. They couldn’t have been talking to him, Mickey reasoned. He didn’t know anyone. He wasn’t even from here...he assumed. So, he kept on walking, fingernails digging into his jeans.

“Aye!...Yo!”

His teeth ground into its opposite as he kept his eyes straight ahead. The voice called again and Mickey had to turn his head to at least have a look. Maybe he wasn’t calling him. He had to know.

Walking in his direction was some guy raising his arm to beckon him over. He was dressed in dark colors just as Mickey was, so Mickey couldn't actually distinguish him very much. There’s no way it was for him. That guy was a stranger. Everyone, to him, was a stranger. Mickey turned back around and almost lost his balance when he crashed into another person.

“Aye, watch it!” The person spat and Mickey didn’t have a chance to respond because the guy was already walking past him. “Yo, Tone!” He seemed to be reacting to the guy that was calling Mickey—or so he thought—over. “You ready?”

The two continued into their own conversation, heading in the opposite direction from where Mickey had just come. It wasn’t until they were out of sight that Mickey released the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding and the grip of his palm.

“Fucking paranoid...” He muttered to himself, shaking his head at his idiocy. He rolled his neck to ease the tension, but something wasn’t sitting right with him still. The guy could see head on that Mickey was in front of him and he was telling _him_ to “watch it”? Paranoid or not, he had to check. 

As discreet as he could be, he found an empty alley free of humans to hurry into. Doing a once over to make sure no one was around, he faced the wall and pulled out the cash. He had to make sure it wasn’t a Trick-or-Treat attempt. 

Trick-or-Treat? 

Is he naming things now? Why was that so easy to name? Why was he so sure about it too? 

“Hey!”

 _God, not again._  

Mickey’s head whipped up at the call, hands immediately hiding the money.

It was a police officer, donned in their “righteous” blue get-up, which didn’t remind him of Ian at all, and jacket barely enough for the harsh Chicago winters, the crest stitched above his heart. Blonde hair stuck out underneath the police cap on his head.

As much as police officers are supposed to serve and protect, they only unnerved Mickey. Since he had gotten out of the coma, he hadn’t gotten any type of “special treatment”. Unless “special treatment” meant being bullied for something he wasn’t even sure he did, then he got plenty of that. But even before, it was deep-rooted. When they had walked in, his hairs on the back of his neck stood erect, his fingers curled into the bedsheet. He couldn’t move, but he was ready to put up a fight.

Just like now.

“What do you have there?”

This officer didn’t seem to have any news. One hand was already pushing the hem of his jacket back, cradling the gun in his holster that he barely tried to hide. The other stood out, stepping forward apprehensively as if Mickey was a wild animal he was trying to capture.

Cautiously sliding the money back in his pocket, Mickey took one step back. The hairs on the back of his neck were up again, his jaw was set as he tried to appear unfazed. He didn’t seem to be doing such a good job of it.

“Hey, guy,” He coaxed, “Calm down. Just wanna talk.”

 _Talk, my ass._ Mickey took another step the closer the cop approached.

He didn’t do anything. He _wasn’t_ doing anything. Of all people, this guy decided to pick Mickey to harass today? 

Before he or the cop could think twice, Mickey took off in the opposite direction, dashing around the corner. The cop was a little ways behind Mickey, but he could tell he was calling for backup. A “dasher”...and a “suspect”, he referred to Mickey as.

A suspect for _what_? He wasn’t about to be taken in for shit.

In the past eight months, he’d never had to run like this, exert this much energy. His heart was beating loudly in his ears. It was all he could hear. The calls of the officer now only sounded like the adults in those Charlie Brown episodes. His throat and chest were tight, lungs constricting and barely capable of expanding. The only way he knew he was breathing somewhat was due to the little tufts of condensation billowing into the air. 

It felt like he was being choked. But he couldn’t stop now.

Dashing between people on the sidewalk, paying no attention to the strange and frightened looks on their faces, Mickey created every diversion he could to slow the officer down before his own legs and lungs would give out. He hopped over a cardboard box in his way, shoving a nearby trash can down as he passed, dashing around sharp corners until he ran into a dead end.

He was trapped in a one-way alley. A tall fence stood in his way and he wasn’t entirely sure he could even make that climb as he struggled for air. His entire body was heating up and he welcomed the sharp chill hitting his cheeks. Thank God it was winter.

“Fuck,” gasped Mickey, running his hand through his hair, eyes surveying his surroundings.

Maybe that dumpster could help him make it over the fence...but he was almost positive he wouldn’t be able to move it where he needed to go. Double fuck.

“Hey! Don’t move!”

Mickey spun around to find an officer barreling out of a police car that came to a screeching halt. 

"You again?" He questioned, his gaze that was so serious a second ago now thrown off by shock only to be replaced again.

This wasn’t the same officer that approached Mickey earlier. No, this guy looked to be around the same age, but taller, more..."proper". It took a minute for Mickey to realize when he got close enough, that this was one of the officers from the hospital. The younger and more forceful one.

The guy held his gun up to Mickey, backing him into a corner. He felt the fence flush against his back only cave in nothing but an inch. He was fucked.

The sight in front of Mickey seemed to blur away and was replaced with another image. A sharp and vivid one. One that caused a jolt of pain to ripple between his temples. 

“ _Hurry up, man_. _You got the goods or not?_ ” This kid looked jumpy, keeping an eye out for someone or something. _There was no one around; cops maybe?_ He was no doubt younger than Mickey. He had a skull cap on, covering his eyebrows. He wore a black jacket, which was completely out of nature in the summer, that barely covered the scar traveling down his neck. _He’s going to fuck this up_.

The guy next to him was a bit older. Calmer. This guy, he was sure he was dealing with.

 _“Calm the fuck down, Ty_ ,” the guy warned through gritted teeth, only glancing at his counterpart before focusing entirely on Mickey, “ _You heard the kid. We ain’t got time for this_. _You know the deal.”_

 _“So do you,”_ Mickey heard himself say, “ _Where’s the money?”_  

His eyes narrowed when he noticed the guy clench his jaw, stilling for a second, and the kid became more nervous. _What the hell..._ Mickey waited, outwardly patiently, but on the inside, he was itching for this deal to be over.

The guy unzipped his vest and pulled out cash from his inner chest pocket, glancing around for any passerby’s. Mickey wasn’t as worried about that as he was these two in front of him. It seemed to take light years just to hand the money over. As much as he didn’t want to be out there, Mickey had an unnerving feeling. Something more unfamiliar than he was used to and he felt ill-prepared. 

_“Here. It’s all there. Now, hand it over.”_

He knew better than to take people’s words.

_“Hold on. Gotta make sure, y’know.”_

Mickey swiped his thumb over his tongue and began flipping through the cash, nonchalantly yet carefully _._

It wasn’t even more than a minute before the kid spoke again _. “Come on, man. You don’t need to count everything right now.”_ He obviously hadn’t done this as much as his counterpart had, but even he looked off.

As the kid swiveled around, he noticed a silver gleam in the corner of his eyes, underneath the kid’s jacket. That’s when everything in Mickey stood on guard, more alert than he deviously was. He still continued counting appearing calm, cool and collected. 

_“Yo, guy, you’re missing—”_

_“Y’know what, forget it, man.”_ The guy makes a reach towards Mickey, snatching the money right from his hands.

“ _What the f—”_ A sudden punch to the jaw literally knocked the words right out of his mouth and him off balance _._ Before Mickey could get his shot in, the kid followed right behind his counterpart, punching him right in the stomach. Mickey doubled over in pain, struggling to take a breath. He knew he had no time to revel in the pain and tackled the kid into the grass below them.

Suddenly, he felt a tug of his light coat and then a complete heave backward as if trying to strip him of it. He couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let them have it, so Mickey made a jab for his knees in the opposite direction one's legs should never bend. The guy bit back a guttural groan as he went down, careful not to bring attention to them. Mickey took this opportunity to snatch his jacket out of his opponent’s hand, freeing himself.

The sense of victory lasted only a second before an unbearable pain shot right through his skull. His vision blurred, half covered by green. Grass, he assumed. He must have found himself on the ground this time. A cool sensation ran down his temple, following the curve of his forehead.

He tried to push himself up, but he found his body weighed more than he last remembered and it only emphasized his splitting headache, causing his blurred vision to cross and double. The cool sensation ran down his nose this time and he used a hand to swipe at it. Red painted his hand, down to his wrist. _Blood?_

Then, he couldn’t figure out what came first: the sharp, ear-splitting bang; the excruciating pain in his stomach; or the strangled cry, but soon came darkness. The last thing he could sense was his body being tugged and pulled at and yells to _go!_

Mickey groaned, grabbing his forehead as his entire weight fell against the metal barrier behind him. _What the fuck was that?_

“There’s nowhere to run.” 

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Mickey barked, almost meekly, cradling his throbbing head. “I didn’t do shit!”

“Then why did we have to chase you for four blocks?”

Mickey struggled to find an answer, not entirely sure he could even muster up an explanation as his mind fought with him, both mentally and physically.

“I’m going to need you to come with me.” The guy said walking closer.

“The hell I am.”

Only steps away, the officer slid his gun into his holster only to replace it with handcuffs. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

“Get the fuck away from _me—_ ” As soon as the officer grabbed Mickey _—again—_ a surge of anger plowed right through him and he abruptly pulled his arm away, fist colliding right with the officer’s nose. Not that he didn’t wholeheartedly deserve it, being a fucking prick and all, but that wasn’t necessarily Mickey’s intentions because getting in a fight with a badge is not the smartest way to go.

“Oh,” The officer laughed wryly, expertly taking Mickey’s wrist and twisting it around his back so that he ended up face first against the fence. He ignored Mickey's wince as he twisted a little harder than probably should have. “We didn’t have anything concrete yet to cite you with. Now, you’ve gone ahead and made that 'assaulting a police officer’. Nice going.”

The click of the handcuffs locking behind him rang through Mickey’s ears and, as he was being dragged to the cop car, all he could think about was how he wished Ian was here. 


	24. West Englewood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this wait guys! Not only is my second to last semester of school taking up my life and my new position at work not giving me an opportunity to write anything anymore (whether it be school work or finding me), I was so unsatisfied with my writing... It wasn't the same and I didn't want to give you guys shit work! I'm only just OKAY with this chapter and I was going to keep writing it, but I figured this is a good place to stop (8 pages ^^') so you guys have SOMETHING and don't think I've abandoned you! This is one story I really want to finish lol

Ian could _swear_ seconds were passing by instead of hours. The night seemed endless and the silence was deafening. He had turned the TV on for a little bit of solace, but it only stayed on for maybe twenty minutes in total since the moment he sat down. The familiar jingling of keys kept ringing underneath the mindless chatter, none of which he really paid attention to, but the door never opened.

It was now 2:20 in the morning and the apartment was still empty save one person—himself. There was no sign of Mickey. No word from Mickey.

But, if he was really honest with himself, could he really expect more than that? He hadn’t really been around as it was. And it ate at him every time. The little voice of his own annoyingly poking fingers in the back of his head like Carl used to do to him when he was younger. Although Mickey had been the one doing the ignoring in the beginning, Ian was still technically his “guardian”, a friend…in the loosest of terms. He should have been around. He _still_ should be around. 

Mickey didn't have a phone; he didn’t even know where he was on this planet.

Then again, maybe he’s created a routine for himself now that he was a “free man” with house key privileges for a little while now. Maybe this is what he does to keep himself occupied—keep himself from being cooped up in the apartment alone all the time? 

_Yeah. Yeah…_

Ian leaned back, letting his body sink into the futon below him as he took another long drag of his cigarette. That much-needed taste of nicotine filled his lungs, but it wasn’t enough to placate him as it usually would. He attempted to stop his knee from bouncing against his will, tried to fill his mind with things other than the loud silence causing it to wander into the most dangerous scenarios.

Yeah, Mickey’s fine. He’s probably just enjoying himself… At 2:30 in the morning… With over $200 in his pocket… And no wallet… 

...

 _Fuck_.

Ian pushed himself off the couch, tapping out the cigarette in the ashtray amongst the other seven butts he’d finished in the past two hours. Grabbing his keys, it didn’t take him more than five seconds until he was out of his apartment building, disregarding the fact that he almost tripped on the last stair step, and got himself into his car. Fastening the seatbelt in its place wasn’t as important as it should have been. 

Even though he had lived in this neighborhood for the past 4 years, Ian was sure every building, alley, crack, and chip in brick layering and cement had been seared into his memory after circling around four times.

Mickey wasn’t anywhere near.

Where the fuck else would he be? There were barely any stores open at this point within walking distance...

Except for the Alibi. 

Ian hauled ass to the pub, barely parking appropriately, before he barreled out. Eyes were on him immediately when the door slammed against the drywall, a frantic redhead scanning the crowd. He was almost calm enough to apologize. Almost.

There were only five people in the bar dispersed between tables and the counter. Jess was manning the counter tonight, stopped in her tracks of filling a cup with beer from the tap.

“You alright there, Ian?” 

“Um, y-yeah. Yeah,” he cleared his throat, walking over to the counter with elephant-like steps, taking this moment to reorient himself as a normal human being. “Hey, you haven’t seen Mickey around, have you?”

The look on her face answered that question in a matter of seconds. Of course, she wouldn’t know. She doesn’t even know his name.

“Uh, he’s about yea-high… Dark hair… Uhm…” Ian dug around the contents of his mind for something more descriptive and distinguishing. “I don’t know—he’s got a tattoo on his knuckles that spell ‘Fuck you up’?”

Her expression was that of a blank slate before revitalizing. “Oh, that guy! The attitude on that one,” Jess chuckled, finishing up the beer and sliding it over to the customer. “But no, I haven’t seen him for a few hours now. Like, at least 6… Why? You know ‘im or somethin'?”

“Yeah… Or something… Did he say where he was headed to?”

She shook her head. “Didn’t really talk much. Came in for a couple beers, watched the game, and headed out. Had a handful of money though…and didn’t tip.” She crossed her arms, leaning her hip against the counter with a huff. 

Fuck. Back to square one.

Ian sighed. “Thanks, Jess. I’ll see you later.” 

“See ya, kid.”

With a small wave, he headed back out the door and got into his car. Letting his forehead fall against the steering wheel with a muffled thud, Ian wrecked his brain trying to figure out where he could have gone. The only place he should have gone was the mall, which had been closed for hours now. Anything else, Ian was at a loss. He could literally be anywhere.

A stream of curses ran through his head before he picked himself up, eyes scanning the streets before him, and decided to finally drive off.

Two hours, four neighborhoods, and three closed malls later, Ian struck out. Terribly. He couldn't find a single track that led to Mickey and the dread that filled him set his stomach in a flurry.

What if Mickey was lost? What if he got mugged? What if whoever it was came back to finish the job they didn't all those months ago?

…What if Mickey just walked out on him?

That wouldn't be too extreme of a thing to do in his case, honestly. Maybe this wasn't the life he wanted after all—not like they had much of one together anyway. Of course, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t his life. This wasn’t his home.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Ian found himself crawling into his bed, jacket still on, feet sock-clad, hugging Mickey’s— _his_ pillow, which smelled so much like Mickey. He placed his cellphone right beside his head to make sure he could hear any rings that could be Mickey reaching out. 

Wait.

Mickey didn’t know his number either…

Ian groaned into the empty room. The red digits of the alarm clock were blinding, screaming at him—4:42AM. He had to close his eyes. Nothing was making this situation any better… _Someone_ had to call him on Mickey’s behalf…

Hopefully.

* * *

The harsh sound of metal music rang through Ian’s ears, startling him awake. His arms flung haphazardly in the air as if someone was attacking him until he was able to make sense of his surroundings.  

He groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he looked at the time. 7:56AM. He had definitely fallen asleep—dreaming of Mickey’s return and confessions of Ian being his only home. Ian would have laughed if his mind wasn’t trying to play catch up as to why metal music was playing… 

 _Oh!_ He snatched his phone from the charger. It wasn’t a number he recognized though. With furrowed brows, Ian cleared his throat in an attempt to rid the sleep from his voice and answered the phone. 

“Hello?” He sat up, pressing the phone firmly to his ear, listening for Mickey.

“Hi, is this Ian Gallagher?” The voice asked. Female, but still unfamiliar.

“Yes?” He slid off his bed, cradling his phone with both hands, “Who is this?” 

“I’m calling from the Chicago Police Department in West Englewood. We have an individual here with no identification. He says his name is ‘Mickey’, no last name. He was brought in last night for suspicious behavior and assaulting one of our police officers—"

“He did, _what_?” Ian exclaimed, stopping in his tracks; his feet hot from pacing his living room floor.

“He assaulted one of our officers, so we had to keep him overnight, thinking he had to be drunk when that occurred, but he’s not cooperating and answering any of our questions. Only asking for you.”

“ _Jesus fuck_ …” Ian breathed, running his hand through his grease-slicked hair.

“Excuse me?”

“Shit— Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll, uh, I'll be down there as soon as possible.” He hurried to the kitchen, pulling out every drawer until he found what he was looking for. Grabbing the notepad and a stray pen with the cap nowhere to be found, he scribbled on the page until the pen produced ink. “Would you be able to give me the address?”

He scrawled down the number as quickly as possible before thanking the woman and hanging up. Thankfully, he was fully equipped to leave the house as he never actually undressed, so he slipped his shoes on and headed back out.

What the _fuck_ was he doing all the way in West Englewood? Why the hell did he assault a police officer? There were too many questions plaguing every coherent thought he had that he missed a couple turns and a few stop signs on the way.

It wasn’t long before he found himself in the Police Department's parking lot, stilling his car close enough to the front entrance. He was surrounded by probably a hundred police vehicles of all types—vans, SUVs, and sedans—and regular cars. _Mickey was in the back of one of them…_ Some officers were just coming in to work, he assumed; some were bringing in criminals— _Mickey was brought in as one of them…—_ and others were chatting it up like stereotypical officers straight out of a TV show, eating donuts. Probably their breakfast. 

Pulling his key out of the ignition, Ian looked up at the building. It looked to be a fairly new build; newer than most of the buildings in the neighborhood anyway. Much cleaner and more modern than he was used to, that was for sure. He hadn’t been anywhere near a police station since he moved out of the Gallagher home, sure that chaos followed the Gallagher family.

Yet, here he was.

Although he had dealt with a lot of cops for more than half his life and has been on the other side in his line of work the last few years, this instance made him just as nervous as he had been when cops had taken Fiona in for child endangerment of Liam, Lip for destroying his old Professor's car, and Carl for selling drugs. Even when Tony found he and Lip driving one of Steve's stolen cars and the frequent ‘get Frank out of jail’ visits when he hadn’t even reached teenage years.

Granted, this time wasn't as drastic as those, but it did hit a nerve. All he could picture was Mickey freaking out in the station right now, digging himself deeper into a hole that Ian wasn't sure even he would be able to get him out of. 

Finally, he got the nerve to step out of his car and entered the building. It was spacious and just as modern as the outside. A lot of windows, which produced the majority of the light source inside. Making his way over to the woman at the front desk, he couldn't help but wonder how much this job paid and what would make someone want to be a receptionist for a police station.

"Hi," Ian spoke, brushing away those thoughts. "I was called earlier about Mickey."

"Oh, yes," she stood up, red lips strengthen in a small smile, ”Follow me."

She guided him through a door and everything immediately became familiar to him. The open office layout, desks scattered around, officers donned in their uniforms creating an endless sea of blue. He’d never been in the West Englewood police station, but it brought back all the memories of his past police station visits. There were some people in seats opposite of officers, either pleading for someone to get out of lock-up, looking for a missing person, or brought in and handcuffed to the chairs to answer questions.

His heart stopped because Mickey _was_ one of the latter.

He was relieved, though, to find he looked okay, superficially—not beaten and bruised for any reason. The typical Mickey-scowl was glued to his face as he looked elsewhere than the officer. 

But he was _here_. Finally in his sights. 

"Mickey," Ian breathed and hurried behind the woman. He immediately found his place on the bench, cradling Mickey's face before he pulled him into a tight embrace. He was fine. He _looked_ fine. "Fuck, I was so worried. Where have you _been_? Are you okay?"

“I’m fine,” Mickey muttered as Ian pulled back, looking over his face once again.

“What the hell happened?” Ian followed Mickey’s arms to find them handcuffed behind him, chain wrapped around one of the bench's loops. A bout of anger rolled around his chest. Mickey wasn’t a fucking criminal and he shouldn't be treated as one. “Can you take these off him—” He more so commanded to the officer behind the desk than asked until he realized who the officer was, “ _You_ again?” 

“Pleased to see you again as well," Officer Harris spoke with a quirked brow, complimenting his cocky smirk. 

This guy hadn't been even remotely relevant to Ian and Mickey since that day at the hospital, but the dislike for him easily came back, having put Mickey through that _and_ now this.

"I cannot remove the handcuffs, unfortunately,” he continued, “After all, he _did_ punch me in the face."

"Oh, you look _fine_ ," Ian insisted, noting the fact that in no way was this "unfortunate" to him; seemed nowhere near apologetic as his words may have been structured to appear. There wasn't even a scratch on his face. "And I'm sure you did something to him to make him even do that in the first place." 

"Yeah, Officer Ass-hat over here wasn't taught some fuckin' personal space," Mickey spat.

"If you just answered our questions," Harris continued, "You would be free to go."

"I told you I don't know nothin’." 

"Questions about what now?" Ian placed a hand against Mickey's chest, easing him back. He knew Mickey was only going to put up a fight and probably make matters worse himself.

"About what brought him to that intersection of Kedzie Avenue and 28th Street on the morning of August 6th, where both he and that stash of marijuana were found."

"You've got to be kidding me…” Ian rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh, “You realize you're not going to get an answer from him, right? He still doesn't remember anything of that day. You can keep asking all you want; it's not going to change until he does." 

"And I am not going to give up until he does," Officer Harris challenged, "There's something not adding up with him and, through all of our research, we are missing a key factor and something tells me that _he,"_ He emphasized, pointing his pen at Mickey, "Knows something and will not divulge."

"The fuck is your problem, guy?" Mickey chimed in, "What's with this vendetta you got against me, huh? You got nothin' better to do? Crime's down or somethin'?" 

"Seriously. You _barely_ have any grounds to keep harassing him like this. If we find out anything we'll let you know. If we don't, you'll have to look somewhere else. Now, get these cuffs _off_ of him, so we can leave." 

"Ian?" A voice called behind him. He turned around to find Tony, walking up with a file in his hands. "What're you doing here?" 

"I'm here for Mickey. What're you doin' here?" 

He hadn't seen Tony in a couple years; ever since he came out to Ian at the baseball game between the all-gay teams of Police Officers versus the Fire Department. A part of him was shocked that day, another part always had a feeling since the only person he ever really pined for was Fiona, but an even smaller part was curious. He couldn't deny Tony was a good-looking guy; it could have been fun, but that time had long past for him. Besides, they had tried it afterwards—it was too fucking weird, having grown up with him. 

"I found him in an alley while I was on patrol in the area. He had $315 in cash in his possession, which is a little _too_ much money to be carrying on hand like that."

A pang of guilt struck Ian. Maybe he shouldn't have given him so much... He cursed himself for disregarding the little voice in his head that told him to do the opposite, to have taken him shopping himself. 

"That was my fault," Ian spoke, shame seeping from his pores, "He didn't steal it or whatever you guys think he did. I gave him money to go clothes shopping yesterday. I didn't even think..." 

"That's it?" Tony asked, incredulously, blue eyes wide and glancing at Mickey who sat quietly. "He wouldn't even tell us that much. Then, he ran off on me when I approached him. I chased him as far as I could until I had to call in backup, which is why Harris brought him in." 

Ian turned abruptly to his counterpart in shock. " _Mickey,_ why the fuck would you _run_?"

He just shrugged his Mickey-answer. "I don't like cops."

Ian groaned, running his hand down his face. He already did make matters worse... "What's going to happen now? Harris said Mickey punched him too... Is he getting a fine or something?" 

"I didn't _punch_ him," Mickey corrected, "He grabbed me and _accidentally_ got knocked in the nose because his face got in the way of my hand. I didn't do it on purpose…yet.”

"Mickey... Shut. _Up_."

"What? I got the right to defend myself and tell the _truth_ , don't I?" 

"Right now," Tony spoke up, breaking up the banter, "We'll just give him a warning on that one. Since you explained the situation and Harris is fine. No damage done and no evidence points to otherwise. So, we're not going to arrest him."

"Oh, good," Ian breathed, his body finally deflating. 

Harris let out a huff, completely betrayed. "That's it, Markovich?"

“I know Ian, he’s good. And you’re one of our best cops, Harris. You're lucky I'm not digging further into this situation because it sounds like you prompted the altercation. _Again_."

The expression on Officer Harris' face was almost laughable; it was formed with so many types of distress, shock, betrayal, and disbelief. Ian had to bite his tongue. He _was_ sitting right in front of the guy.

"I am doing my _job_."

"Right," Tony nodded, slapping a file in front of Harris is a loud _splat_ to elicit a slight jump in the officer, "So, do your job. _Correctly._ "

Ian was impressed, to say the least. The promotion he had received a couple years ago gave him some balls. It was quite amusing.

After serving Harris a reprimanding glare, Tony turned to Ian, “You guys are free to go. _Harris_ , go get their belongings from Mary.” 

With another choked and disbelieving sigh, Harris stood up, chair scraping harshly against the tile flooring, and sauntered off.

“Sorry about him, guys.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Tony,” Ian placed a hand on his forearm, squeezing appreciatively. “Thanks for having our back. Yet again.” 

He smiled, warmly. “Just like old times, huh?” 

For a moment, Ian forgot the reason why he was in front of Tony in the first place. It may have been the heroics of this whole situation that painted Tony Markovich as a savior, an angel, a heaven-sent to get him out of the peril that wreaked havoc on his mind.

Mickey cleared his throat, metal jiggling in the background. “Hey, I’m still here, ya know.” 

“Shit, sorry,” Ian hissed, turning abruptly to him at the same time Tony was fiddling with his keys to find the correct one. He managed to unlock it when Harris came back with a manila envelope and tossed it onto the desk.

The second Mickey’s hands were free, Ian hugged him properly. A full embrace. “I’m glad you’re safe, Mickey.” 

He didn’t feel Mickey reciprocate this time and he wasn’t really expecting him to since Mickey wasn’t that type of guy. But he was surprised at the relaxing of his muscles. It was like Mickey gave in and melted into his embrace, something he hadn’t felt from him…ever. 

But it only lasted a couple seconds before he stiffened up and wriggled out of Ian’s grasp. 

“Can we go now?” He muttered, taking the envelope from the table. He slid the contents into his palm, the money he had been carrying. He flipped through it—counting it, Ian assumed—before shoving it against Ian’s chest. 

Before Ian could get a word out, Mickey walked past all three of them, back the way they came. Out the office door.

“Uhm,” He muttered, turning back to Tony, “Do you need anything more from us?” 

“Uh, no. No, we’re good,” Tony smiled, “I’ll see you around?” 

“Yeah, see you around, Tony,” Ian smiled, “Thanks again.” He turned to Harris, smile completely deflating, before following Mickey’s path. 

Bidding his goodbye to the woman at the front desk—should he have gotten her name?—he left the station. Mickey had found the car. His back laid against the passenger door, arms folded over his chest, expression pensive and brooding.

Suddenly, Ian was struck with that familiar sense of guilt that he had long forgotten about the second he saw Mickey on the bench. 

“Let’s go home, yeah?” Ian spoke to get his attention. Mickey didn’t respond. He just pushed himself off and turned around, hand grasping the handle. Waiting.

Wordlessly, Ian unlocked the car and Mickey shuffled into it. Once again, Ian followed suit, but waited for something, an acknowledgement, a comment about how he even got here in the first place. Anything.

Nothing was all he got.

No doubt Mickey was upset that Ian had put him in this situation in the first place. Ian was the one being careless, neglectful.

With yet another sigh, he started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.


End file.
